House Rules: The Jack Gordon Story

by Liz Crowe

  There was no real logic to the move and he knew it. But he was going with his gut for a change. Something about the finality of this week—graduation from law school, the end of what he considered three of the most important years of his life as he had learned so much—mostly about himself. “Would you hold still a second please?”

  She let him pull her close, and threaded her fingers in his hair for a minute. Then stepped back with a look of shock when he held out the box. For a minute, he was surprised, and then when a terribly familiar, ugly expression dropped over her face and into her eyes, he blinked.

  They froze, a strange tableau, before she burst out laughing. Jack sat back, confused, his brain doing a little “told you so” song and dance as his heart pounded. She kept laughing. He kept staring.

  “Oh Jack,” she fingered the expensive chain still around her neck, “this is just so…oh my god.” She dissolved into giggles. Fury forced him to his feet. She stared up at him, the “ugly Jenna” look in place. The one he hated but thought he could live with if just to have some stability, some normalcy, some kind of “This is what we need to be regular people.” That was all he wanted, really, all the Dom and sub bullshit aside. And now?

  “What the fuck, Jenna,” he growled. She glanced up from her laughing fit.

  “Oh please, get a grip, Jack. You….” She stood, wiping her streaming eyes. “You and I? No way. I’ve had too much fun with…you know, the guys upstairs,” she pointed to the ceiling indicating the two younger men upstairs who he’d rented the place to. “We had a nice little time while you were dicking around in Ann Arbor. Oh sweetie, you thought I…?” She reached for him. He smacked her hand away before she could touch him.

  “Get the fuck out,” he said, not looking at her. His brain had shut down, and his body was tensing up in a way that did not bode well for her.

  “Oh, come on, Jack. Let’s just not do this.” He kept his distance, the rumbling in the back of his skull ready to explode, and god knows what he would do then.

  “You fucked my roommates? Did you take on Adams too?” He rubbed his neck, attempted not to shove her into the wall. “Let’s not do what, Jenna? Be grownups? Jesus. Go, leave the chain on the counter.” He walked out, every inch of his skin on fire. A strange sense of relief claimed him then morphed into fear—raw, abject terror at being alone again.

  No, you stupid idiot. You utter fool. Women are bitches. Cooking, cleaning, and fucking was right. His father was right. He shut the door of his bedroom, didn’t slam it, wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. When he heard her car squeal out into the street he walked back to the kitchen, saw the ring box and the chain on the table. With a roar of rage he flung them both against the wall.

  Evan was out, god knows where, so he made three phone calls and within thirty minutes the house was full, he had a hot woman on his lap and a bourbon bottle in his hand. It was the last thing he remembered for a while.

  When Evan found him the next morning he’d passed out on the floor, and it took getting his stomach pumped to revive him. Not something he would ever do again; lose it like that over a woman. They sat in the car after he’d been released from the hospital and he’d reassured both Rob and Suzanne he was alive and fine, and sans the bitch they all hated anyway.

  He groaned and put his head against the side window. The monumental fact of his complete idiocy consumed him. He’d heard it all last night, all the times Jenna was at her “study group” but was instead fucking some other guy, countless other guys. He had been played. She had topped him in an impressive way and in public. As in everybody knew about it but him.

  The glass was cool on his face. But he didn’t think he’d ever recover from the horrific moment he’d allowed himself to feel something beyond the physical and had his heart handed to him, still beating and dripping blood, by the very woman he’d given it to for safekeeping.

  Evan spent a bit of energy trying to convince him not to lump all women into the same group as that evil slut he’d actually considered “wife material.” After he’d assured Jack that he, Evan, had not laid a finger on the woman. Jack believed him. Evan Adams was the most straight-up dude he’d ever encountered despite his freak show tendency to switch and go sub to older women.

  He snorted. Wife. That was rich. He would never marry. Not if it meant being willing to compromise as he’d been prepared to do with that cunt. His chest hurt, and his throat felt like it had been ripped out because of the tube they had to shove down it. He could thank Jenna for that too.

  “Goddamn it.” He pounded the dash, furious at himself for even saying her fucking slut name in his head. A dark shadow curtained his vision, bringing with it an angry restlessness he hadn’t felt in years, not since he’d discovered what made him tick, what got him off, and what he’d neglected, in service to that whore.

  “Starting over,” he said to the window, as he sat in the car with his friend. “That is job one now.”

  “Yep,” Evan agreed, climbing out of the car. Jack watched him head to the house wincing when he tried to swallow around his aching throat. He had a job lined up for himself, and one for Evan if he wanted it. After what that guy had been through he’d let the job search lapse so Jack, in his typical take-charge way, had found him something. They were both headed back to Ann Arbor, and the “starting over” time began right now.

  Chapter Eleven

  The dark room felt familiar, so many of the sights and sounds the same. He’d found a new club, run by none other than the former NFL star Kyle Summerlin. The Suite was in downtown Detroit, not far from that first, much smaller and less well-appointed place where he’d learned his way as a sexual Dom—or more realistically, the only way he knew to truly calm his nerves.

  He knew Kyle already, from his Chicago club days, but met up with him again at a big-time fundraiser for a politician he hardly gave a shit about but had been dragged to by his woman of the moment. The men had hit off immediately, and once Jack realized “The Suite” that his Chicago friends told him about and Kyle’s place were one and the same, he procured Kyle’s cell phone number and an invite to his club. After he screwed and then summarily dumped the woman from the party, of course.

  Because that was the one thing that defined him lately—screwing around and dumping random women—and he liked it. Or at least it made him happy. Well, okay it kept him on an even keel. Having his first million in the bank helped, of course, and he could thank his own resourceful, hard-working self for that.

  He sat, sipping tea and pondering just how much had transpired for him in the last few years. He had stayed away from the whole BDSM scene for a while, trying to wrap his head around what the hell he had done so utterly wrong with Jenna.

  The job he’d found in real estate title law was mind-numbingly boring which left a lot of time for self-contemplation. Finally, after signing one gigantic commission check too many he enrolled in the next real estate licensure class, on a total whim, out of the same sense of boredom and non-direction that had led him to law school in the first place.

  Like anything else he put his mind to, he excelled, giving it a hundred and fifty percent of his energy and after a few years he was the superstar agent at Stewart Realty, the largest regional, independently owned brokerage in Ann Arbor. As a total side bonus: he’d taken on the challenge of seducing every hot female agent in the company plus a few clients, and memorably, the mother of a client. She’d been a very eager cougar who’d made him nostalgic for Mindy, until the woman got a wee bit too clingy after a couple of fun nights so he had to cut her loose.

  John Gordon Senior had kicked the bucket in the meantime as well. Massive heart attack dropped him on a job site in his tracks, dead before his stupid head hit the floor. That had been one of the more surreal weeks of Jack’s life. Not only had he lost his father—the one man who still motivated him, if for no other reason than to prove him wrong, that he, Jack would be more successful in every area of his life—but he’d gained a brother-in-law.

&nb
sp; His sister Maureen had gone and fallen head over heels for none other than his old friend Brandis, right under Jack’s nose. He had rejected it even as he saw it coming. Even after he caught them together in Brandis’ bed in the house he shared with the guy one summer. While it took him a while to accept it, he knew it was just him being the overprotective big brother. It had not helped that Brandis and Mo had moved overseas nearly immediately to an airbase in Germany.

  His friend had become a respectable, reliable grown up—not much different than he’d been as a teen really. Jack had just been too busy to notice. There was not a man on the planet who would be a better husband for his sister than Brandis. Their wedding had been one of the happiest days of his life, to date.

  And they now had twins, a boy and a girl, that Jack truly adored. They made it home twice a year, and he had been over there once or twice. “Vacation” being a word he didn’t truly give much weight to, considering his drive to make more, be more, and have more, even now after having just rounded the corner on his mid-thirties, and still alone.

  He stretched his arms over his head and observed the subs being led into the dark wood-paneled room. His skin pebbled in anticipation but his mind was not on the task tonight, he could tell. And that was probably not good for any woman who wanted him, so he started to rise and head for the side door, hoping to catch Kyle on the way out and apologize.

  A whiff of perfume, or something more primal, made him stop and turn, narrowing his eyes at a luscious female form. She knelt on the stage, dressed in a leather bustier, a thong, and high black leather heels. He stuck his hands in his pockets and watched her a minute, trying to square what his head was telling him—to go home—with what his body now suddenly, urgently messaged—go to her.

  He let his body lead, which was par for his course, and something he should probably change. But his skin was tingling in a familiar way, and his brain was clearing of all clutter. He knew nothing, saw nothing, heard nothing—but her.

  She was curvy perfection, legs that went on for miles, and a head of thick auburn hair that made his fingers curl into fists in anticipation of diving into it. He hesitated a split second, realizing why he’d been drawn to her and that he should just leave and let someone else have her.

  That hair…he touched it as he stood in front of her. It was like spun red silk under his fingers. Heart pounding, he did the forbidden thing, unable to stop himself. He put his finger under her chin, tilted it up so he could see her face. He had to—the imperative drove him to break rules, even as he heard Kyle’s throat clearing admonition behind him.

  Her eyes were huge, hazel, and sincere. Her full lips parted, which made him bite back a groan of anticipation. He sighed and walked away, kept going until he hit the door. He heard Kyle calling his name as he pressed the elevator button.

  He had to get the fuck out of here. He had no business doing this anymore. It might calm him some but it revved him up too high at the same time. He needed a break. But his body was putting on an admirable show of resistance. His legs trembled, his scalp kept tingling in that way he knew could only be helped by a long, hard, session aided by—he could guess by looking at her—handcuffs, a ball gag, a flogger, and hot wax that he would drip, slowly, down her creamy white torso.

  “Fuck me,” he muttered, leaning on the wall with both hands, shaking like a leaf.

  “Jack!” Kyle was nearer now, and Jack punched the button again, willing the damn elevator to rescue him, as if he’d be free once the doors were shut. Which he knew was nonsensical. But the way he felt, a slave to his…kink…to his fetish. It was too much. Jack was a guy who had to be one hundred percent in control of everything, everywhere. This thing he did, this urgent, base need he exorcised more than twice a week, was gaining the upper hand. He had to wrestle it back into its cage where it belonged.

  “Gordon, shit. What the hell? Do you have any idea who that was you just left, alone, like an abandoned prom date? Jesus.” Kyle’s eyes were bright with angry confusion. Jack was his prize pony, his Master stud, whose prowess was known far and wide among the circles that cared about such things.

  At that precise moment, Jack hated Kyle. Hated this whole sick scene. Despised himself for falling prey to it.

  “No, I don’t. I don’t care. I’m not…I don’t feel too hot. I gotta go.” He turned from the man who had become a good friend to him and to Evan, and had been his friend Rob’s lover, briefly, before that guy had run off to Chicago. What a convoluted mess. When Rob had told him he was bi-sexual, after his years in France had opened his eyes to that fact, it felt like one more thing Jack should have figured out but hadn’t.

  He sighed. Kyle put a firm, and very large hand on his arm. “I am not in the mood. I won’t be any good for anyone.” He kept his gaze trained on the still closed elevator doors.

  “Relax. It’s fine. Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply you had to do anything you didn’t want to.”

  “Oh, I want to.” Jack turned around fast, anger licking at the edges of his brain. “I want to toss her sweet ass up on a cross and spank her, hard, use wax on her too…I want to make her scream my goddamned name and beg me to fuck her. Then I want her to suck my cock with those amazing red lips so hard I see stars.” He tucked his hands in his pockets, not even sure why he’d said all that. Now that he’d stated it, he wanted it even more.

  Kyle leaned back, raised an eyebrow and stared at him. The guy was nearly six foot ten and three hundred pounds of powerful muscle. With a light brown complexion, odd, reddish–brown, tightly-curled hair and gray eyes. He’d always been a specimen on the gridiron. Now, covered in bespoke dark navy silk and wool, Egyptian cotton with three-thousand-dollar leather shoes and sporting a watch that cost twice as much as Jack’s own, he was the epitome of success.

  As owner of the Midwest destination BDSM club, a bi-sexual man, he was lonely at times he claimed, but content. Jack looked up at the ceiling, tried to calm his twanging nerve endings. Kyle stayed quiet, waiting for him to speak.

  “Sorry,” he muttered, finally, blowing out a breath. Something about the man’s silence made him relax.

  “Jack, you know I understand how you feel, right? I mean, when we met I ID’d you right away as a Dom and as the kind who has to use it as an outlet to stay sane. I’m the same way. It took me nearly twenty years to come to terms with it. But if you need a break, I get that too. This whole thing,” he held up a hand, indicating the expensive carpets, huge bouquets of fresh flowers, original artwork and the soft music, “can be overwhelming after a while. It’s why I go away for a month every year.” He dropped his arm and mirrored Jack’s stance by putting his hands in his trouser pockets. “You’ve been coming here nonstop for, what? Nearly three years now? And not a single one of these women has intrigued you enough to see them again? To go out on a date, have a cup of coffee? Anything? That worries me.”

  Jack scoffed, opened his mouth to tell Kyle he had plenty of coffee dates and every other kind of date for that matter and not to worry about him. Then he stopped, the words frozen on his lips.

  He had… nothing. And he knew it. A shit ton of money in the bank, a showplace of a house he’d renovated with his own hands, a job he loved, his father’s construction company humming along, and yet…. Gulping, he started to turn back around, to escape the hard reality his friend had just tossed in his face.

  His ears burned and his body still thrummed with that old annoying, restless energy. And the fear, that he would open himself up to emotion and get bitch-slapped by it once again.

  “Wait,” Kyle said. “Let’s go sit and talk. I’ll break out the Pappy Van Winkle. You don’t have to do anything else but have a drink, and relax. We’ll let all the others be on stage for a change tonight.”

  Jack squared his shoulders, faced his friend, and nodded. Kyle Summerlin was just as “in demand” as Jack himself, and with both sexes, which gave him more options, Jack supposed. He, himself, had never once been inclined, not even tempted to do anything with a g
uy other than that once when he and Rob had been higher than kites and some girl wanted them to kiss. He’d done it, but it meant nothing, and it had turned her on so much well… it had been worth the weirdness.

  Even when Rob came out to him when he got back from cooking school, it hadn’t mattered. These men were his friends and always would be. He was never more grateful than he was for Kyle, sensing his need to not be alone that night, but not to perform on the sexual stage as he’d been doing nonstop for… yeah, Jesus, three years now.

  “You will owe her one though,” Kyle said, draping an arm around Jack’s shoulders. “She came here for you.”

  Jack laughed but it was not a pleasant sound, not even to his ears. “Okay, deal. You gonna tell me who she is?”

  “Nah, you’ll just have to guess or ask her yourself.” He poured them a healthy helping of the two-hundred-dollar bottle of bourbon, then raised his glass. Jack clinked his, a bit of his frustration ebbing as the brown liquor coated his throat. The memory of Jenna nearly floored him then, from out of nowhere, for no reason, mocking him. He set his jaw, downed the booze, then stood. Kyle looked up at him with those odd, gray eyes. “Where’re you going?”

  “To make the mystery lady’s night,” he said, shooting his cuffs. “I’m still sober, you know that. I think pretending I can just leave here without getting her off, like she paid for, would just make me look bad.”

  “Well,” Kyle sat back, sipping his drink, his face pensive. “If you’re sure. I’m thinking you should take a break.”

  “I will. After this one.” He turned, opened the door, and marched down to the stage where the Doms—four men and two women—were now arrayed against the velvet-lined wall, waiting for the subs to choose.