His Name Is Sir (The Power to Please, Book 3)

by Ward, Deena

  “God, Gibson. I wish you hadn’t done that. Michael has to know you did it. What if he can prove it, trace it back to you? You could be charged with a crime ...”

  “No, that won’t happen. It can never be traced back to me, or my contractor. I swear to you, they’re that good. And even if they weren’t, Michael doesn’t have the power to touch me legally, and he knows it.”

  He said the last with a vehemence I wouldn’t hazard arguing with.

  “So don’t worry,” he continued. “The site was only the first step. Next we tried to track down his backups. Michael has an office, but it turns out he stores little on the computers there. Mostly it’s financial records. We now have a copy of those. There were no physical records or disks in the office, other than some information in a few filing cabinets.”

  “Oh,” was all I could think to say.

  He said, “The backup files of the videos, as well as his personal library, were in his apartment. Those have been confiscated. I can’t know what he might have taken with him when he left, but he left in a hurry and didn’t take much with him. We can’t know for sure if he has other copies of the files until we find him.”

  I thought, holy crap. I asked, “You broke into his office and apartment?”

  “No.”

  “People who work for you?”

  “No. People who didn’t mind doing me a favor when I told them it was for a good cause.”

  “I see,” I said, but of course I didn’t.

  He said, “Right now, I’ve assembled a team to comb through the financial records and find everyone who purchased access to your files or who bought a DVD.”

  So now I knew. Michael sold DVDs, too. My heart sank.

  It must have been obvious on my face, because Gibson asked, “You didn’t know he sold DVDs?”

  “No. I thought about it, but I was too afraid to check.”

  He took a deep breath. “Well, I’m sorry I told you, then. I don’t want to add to your troubles.”

  “It’s okay. I want to know everything, even if I’m sometimes a coward about it.”

  He gave me a long look, then said, “We’re in the process of discovering which members downloaded your files and which ones only accessed them online. Once I know who’s who, I’ll give the list of the downloaders to my contractor, who will then make sure those downloaded files disappear.”

  “You’re not serious,” I said. “You’re going to hack more computers? Individuals? How many are we talking ab ...” then I stopped, not sure I wanted to know the answer to that last question.

  “We debated sending letters, threatening legal action if they don’t destroy the files themselves, but it’s likely they would just burn the files onto a disk then trash the files on their hard drives, and that’s if they didn’t think we were bluffing, which we would be.”

  “We decided,” he continued, “the most thorough action would be a quick assault. My contractor will make it look less specific than it is, take out more than just your files, in other words, attack more than just computers with your files. Your files have been added to a watch list, also, to alert us if anyone reposts your videos or photos on any other site.”

  I could only shake my head, slowly, finding it difficult to digest what I was hearing.

  He said, “As for the DVDs, not many of those were sold. There wasn’t much time for that in the short period they were available for sale. We’ll have them all confiscated before too long.”

  “You’re going to go to these people’s homes? Get the DVDs back somehow?”

  “That’s right. Not me, of course.”

  “Right. People who you’ll hire. Or who want to do you a favor.”

  “Something like that.”

  “I never thought that this could ...”

  He interrupted. “It’s not perfect, Nonnie. Everyone can do everything exactly right, but we can’t guarantee that someone, somewhere, won’t get something past us. Someone could have already burned backup disks that we don’t know about. I don’t want you thinking that this is one hundred percent. It might be, but it might not be, too.”

  “But my God, Gibson. It’s incredible. Like out of some movie. That you can do this ... I had no idea it was possible. I never even imagined what you’ve described.”

  He actually, for the briefest of moments, had an expression of relief cross his features. “Then it gives you some comfort?”

  “Of course it does. Only, I’m worried about you. None of this sounds legal. You’re taking on too much risk and it’s not right.”

  “If there is risk, who should take it, if not me?” he asked as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

  “No one should. No one but me, and I can’t pull it off. So no one should.”

  “I can’t let you live in constant fear, worrying about who might be watching your video at any given moment. Have the threat of exposure hanging over you forever. No. I told you I would fix this.”

  He leaned forward. “I can’t make the people who have already seen your video and photos unsee them. But I can do my damnedest to ensure that no one else does, or at least make it nearly impossible for anyone else to do so. It’s not a perfect solution, and I apologize for that. In time, with due diligence, it can become perfect. That’s the goal.”

  He said all this with an vehemence that sent a shiver down my spine. I said the only thing I could think to say, although it was sadly inadequate. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. There’s still much to do. I only wanted you to know what was happening, wanted to give you hope that it’s going to get better.”

  “You have. I’m truly ...”

  He stood up, effectively cutting me off. “I should go now. Unless you have any questions?”

  I shook my head. “No, I don’t. But I do need to tell you something. So if you would ...” I waved at the couch.

  He reseated himself and watched me intently.

  I said, “This is really hard for me to tell you, and I don’t want to add to what you’re already handling. But I think I have to tell you anyway.”

  “Okay.”

  I willed myself courage, clutched the edge of the sofa cushion. “I’m afraid there might be another video.”

  Chapter 20

  “Another video,” Gibson repeated, his voice even lower than usual. “Explain.”

  “I don’t know if it’s on his Web site,” I said in a rush. “My guess is that it’s in his personal library. If there is another video.”

  “You should have told me about this from the beginning.”

  I may have imagined the accusation in his tone, but I responded as if I were certain. “I didn’t think about it until now. I’ve been a little busy trying to get used to the idea that my life is ruined.”

  He took a slow breath, leaned back into the couch. “Of course. I apologize. What made you think of it now?”

  “I had a nightmare about something that happened, and when I woke up, I had a memory of the night I broke up with Michael. I was at his apartment, in that room of his. It’s possible he could have secretly recorded me again.” My heart pounded in my chest. This wasn’t a conversation I wanted to be having, ever.

  “The videos on the Internet weren’t recorded the night you split from him?”

  “No. Did I say that? I don’t remember.”

  “You didn’t say it. I assumed. My mistake.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s no matter,” he said. “How many times were you with him, in his dungeon?”

  “Just twice.”

  “And he used a hood both times.”

  “No. Only the first time,” I explained. I wiped my palms on my jeans. “Look, the time I’m talking about, the second time, I remembered something, a detail about when he brought me into the room. He made me kneel on a mat. Centered me on a big ‘X’ that was taped to the mat.”

  He didn’t hesitate. “You think it might have been a stage mark, to put you in the right place f
or the cameras.”

  “Yes,” my response barely above a whisper.

  His lips thinned. “You’re right. It’s suspicious. I’ll search his files, see what I can find. Michael used a numerical system for naming his files. If you can remember the exact date you were there, or even close to it, that would help.”

  I nodded. I couldn’t forget the date. It had been the night before my vacation, a date I had marked on my calendar for weeks. I told Gibson, and he entered the information into his phone.

  He asked, “Do you think it’s possible he could have recorded you anywhere else?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “But to be safe ...”

  He let his words hang there. I didn’t want to discuss any of this with Gibson. And I felt fairly certain Michael couldn’t have recorded the other times we were together. However, even a small chance felt like a huge risk these days.

  I kept my composure, what was left of it, while I counted backward in my mind, and one by one, gave him the dates, or as good a guess as I had, for each of my nights with Michael. Gibson inputted them all into his phone, without comment.

  Afterward, we sat together in awkward silence. Gibson studied me and adjusted his position several times.

  Finally, he said, “Your nightmare. Was it about that last night with Michael?”

  Why had I used the word “nightmare?” I should have use the word “dream” instead, or any word that wouldn’t have caused Gibson to ask questions.

  I raised my chin. “Yes.”

  “What did he do to you?”

  “I can’t talk about it.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Either way.”

  He abruptly stood up. “I should leave, let you get some rest. I’ll keep you posted on any developments.”

  I slowly rose to my feet. “Thank you. For everything.”

  He nodded. I followed him to the door, said goodbye, then locked up behind him per his final instructions.

  I turned, and on leaden legs, walked to my bedroom then climbed into bed, not even bothering to remove my shoes.

  I lay on my back, staring blindly at the white ceiling. I wanted to feel encouraged. After all, Gibson was performing miracles on my behalf. It was difficult to wrap my head around what he had done for me, what he was planning to do. Mind boggling.

  The man was breaking who-knew how many laws, hiring who-knew how many contractors, and spending more money than I dared to estimate. For me. To help me.

  Or was it? I feared he was doing all of this not because of romantic feelings for me, but because he felt responsible for me and for righting his cousin’s wrongs.

  He had asked, “If there is risk, who should take it, if not me?”

  If that didn’t smack of his sense of personal responsibility, I didn’t know what might.

  I partly hated myself for worrying over whether or not he still cared about me, still wanted me. It was foolish to imagine he could want me after all of this.

  And if there were another video, he would want me even less. Well, I told myself, nothing from nothing leaves nothing.

  Until I said it aloud to Gibson, I had kept my fears of a third video pushed to the sidelines of my worries. I was revolted to think that the incident with Kamun may have been taped, a permanent record of the beer bottle, my fear and the fight.

  The “X” on the mat. Michael’s insistence about where I stood near the bench. Damning evidence. Sickening likelihood.

  Then there were considerations of other kinds. I had wondered how truthful Michael was with me that night, afterward. I never could fully accept his claim that it was all a terrible misunderstanding. Eventually, I stopped wondering. It didn’t matter, ultimately, since there were plenty of other things wrong with that night and our other encounters to make me never regret my decision to break it off with him.

  But now I thought of Michael leaving the room and not returning until I shoved Kamun to the floor. I imagined Michael in another room in the apartment, staring at a monitor, watching what was happening in the dungeon between Kamun and I. Watching what Kamun did with that beer bottle. Listening to me cry “no” over and over, and then screaming “yellow.”

  And I thought about how Michael didn’t return to the dungeon until I was racing for the door. How he was running when he entered the room, as if he knew what was happening in there.

  Surely not. He protected me from Kamun’s revenge, after all.

  I didn’t know what to believe. I didn’t want to be thinking about any of this, let alone analyzing the details of Michael’s actions anew.

  I needed to stop torturing myself with it. I was unlikely to ever know the full truth about that night.

  I returned to thinking about Gibson, and all the progress he had made, how I should be thrilled with the outcome so far. But I was too occupied with fear, worried that Gibson would find another video of me. And even worse, horrified that he would watch it.

  I knew he would watch it. Had no doubt whatsoever.

  My anxiety only increased over the course of the afternoon and evening. Not even the Hoytes’ company could distract me. I went to bed early, but not to sleep. No, sleep was an impossibility. I went to bed to give Ron and Elaine some relief from my morose company.

  I heard from Gibson around midnight. He sent a text.

  It read: “No other videos found within date range, not on site servers or in personal library.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut, took a few deep breaths. Then I opened my eyes and read the text again.

  “No other videos found.”

  It seemed too good to be true, but I would take it. I would definitely take it.

  I replied to his text, a simple, “Thank you.”

  His response came rapidly. “Are you okay?”

  I sent back, “Better now. Thanks again. Goodnight.”

  A few minutes ticked by before I received another text. It read: “Sleep well.”

  For the first time in two days, I thought there was a chance that I actually might.

  I awoke to an empty house, if not restored by the sleep, then at least coherent enough to function. I passed the day much like the one before, puttering around the house, trying to find ways to occupy myself.

  It was Friday. Three days since Michael brought ruin upon me. Gibson’s efforts to fix the situation notwithstanding, I couldn’t shake my sense of doom.

  Regret. It was a sour taste in the back of my throat that wouldn’t be rinsed away. And it only became more potent as I relived the many impetuous and foolhardy decisions which had led to this disaster.

  I wanted to undo my time with Michael, spin time backward to that moment in Private Residence when I met a handsome playboy and allowed myself to be charmed into his grasp. The more I thought about our time together, the more warning signs I recalled. Many of those signs I recognized when I was in the moment, but I ignored them.

  I ignored them because, well, because he was sexy and he gave me mind-blowing orgasms.

  It shook my self-respect to admit that. Did I have some kind of toggle switch inside me? An either/or? I could either be a thinking person or I could come really hard? What did that say about me?

  I wasn’t the first person to confuse passion with love, to blindly trust the object of lust. And I wouldn’t be the last. Unfortunately, this knowledge was no consolation. This was about me, not an unknowable someone. I should have been different. I should have known better.

  Friday night, Ron and Elaine once again tried to get me out of the house, but I wouldn’t leave. On Saturday, Elaine tempted me out with promises of shopping. I didn’t go. Saturday night, I convinced them to go out and leave me at home.

  And then it was Sunday. And Monday. And Tuesday. One week since the devastation.

  I didn’t see Gibson during this time, or speak to him. He sent me a few text messages, brief updates about ongoing efforts to retrieve DVDs and delete outstanding files. Michael was still unaccounted for.

  One week
. And I wasn’t feeling any better. In fact, I was feeling worse.

  Ron and Elaine began to despair of ever getting me to go outside again. They didn’t understand. How could they? They didn’t see how Frank Linton looked at me, how Stephanie wouldn’t even say goodbye.

  The more I worried about someone recognizing me out there, the more impossible it became for me to leave the house. The more I imagined the sneers, the lewd looks, the crass comments, the more I knew an outing wasn’t worth the risk.

  I stopped talking for the most part. Elaine would chat at me and I would nod and smile but I wasn’t hearing her, or anyone. I was sunk deeply inside myself, the only conversation worth listening to was the one inside my head.

  And it was a bitter, bitter conversation. I had come to realize that the person to blame in all of this wasn’t Michael. It was me. I was to blame.

  I had behaved like a child with a new, dangerous toy, had recklessly played with that toy and didn’t stop to consider the repercussions of my actions. Even after my experience with Kamun and nearly being raped, I hadn’t let that be a warning to curb my impulsiveness. No. I’d hopped right back into the fray, enjoying a vacation fuck in front of a stranger. Scened publicly with the Hoytes. Fucked Gibson in my office.

  When I thought about how I vowed to throw off convention, how I bragged that I would make my own rules and not let others contain me, I wanted to slap myself. Look at where throwing off convention had gotten me. Unemployed, perhaps unemployable in any good job. Humiliated. Degraded.

  And Gibson Reeves. I was feeling bitter about him as well. Gibson, who had started all this. Now here was this ugly fallout, and where was he? Was he holding me at night? Was he kissing me and telling me it didn’t matter to him what Michael had done? Nope.

  Oh, he was trying to fix the problem, as he put it. But Michael had been right about him. Gibson didn’t want me anymore. I was a taint on his image. I would be a taint on any respectable man’s image.