Double Vision

by L. M. Halloran

  My heart beats wildly in my chest. “That’s what you meant, isn’t it? When you said he’s not a boss, but The Boss?”

  “Yes. Maddoc doesn’t give orders to say, the Crips or Bloods, but when he calls meetings, they’re not ignored, either.”

  I stare at the cracked nail polish on my toes, peeking out of the water. “Holy fucking shit,” I breathe. “What am I going to do?”

  “You’re going to stay with me,” he says gently. “I’ll never let anything happen to you, Eden.”

  My gaze jerks to him. “And who the hell are you? Why would the so-called most powerful crime boss in Los Angeles give a shit about what you think or say?”

  “Politics,” he says rigidly.

  I frown. “What?”

  Liam shakes his head and without another word, rises and leaves the room. The bathroom door closes softly behind him. I sink back into the cooling water, fear and confusion playing ping-pong in my head.

  26

  The next two days pass in a blur of television sitcoms, sunbathing in the backyard, and ignoring Liam. He’s around during the day but keeps to his study and bedroom, with periodic trips to the kitchen. After delivering me dinner each night, he leaves. I have no idea what he does all night long, only that his car is back in the driveway come morning.

  When I do see him, I can’t speak to him. Gone is the man I first met, with his easy smile and mood-ring eyes. In his place is a brooding stranger. He doesn’t shave. He spends hours beating the shit out of a punching bag in the garage. And when our eyes meet, I see nothing I recognize. Not desire, anger, or worry. Just a vast, frigid void.

  Friday night, I watch from the living room window as he gets in his car and drives away. Black slacks. Black shoes. Black button-down. I wonder if he has his switchblade, or if there’s a gun in the car. I wonder if he’s going to hurt someone.

  After all, it’s Friday night in Los Angeles.

  Heading to my room, I take a quick shower and consider my wardrobe. Most of my clothes are now here, the rest of my belongings from my apartment sitting in a storage container somewhere.

  I pull out the silver mini-dress, then put it back. Grab the red dress. Shove it back. After considering and discarding another few options, I finally choose a comfortable cotton dress. Black, with capped sleeves, a low neckline, and a flirty A-line skirt. Dressy enough that I can fit in at a club, casual enough that I can blend into crowds.

  I have no idea where Liam goes each night, but tonight, I’m following him.

  His first mistake was not changing the passcode on his phone. His second was giving me his iTunes password so I could rent movies. And his third mistake was assuming I was too scared to do anything besides hide in his house.

  When the app I’m using to track his phone tells me he’s been in the same place over an hour, I call a cab. Twenty minutes later, I see headlights in the driveway and a yellow sedan pulling up.

  After a moment’s hesitation, I leave my phone on the kitchen island. I don’t want to risk him using it to locate me; this way, if he does he’ll find me at home. Then I hurry outside and slip into the back seat.

  “Where to, miss?”

  I rattle off the address, and the driver’s eyes widen in the rearview.

  “You sure that’s the right address?” he asks.

  My pulse flutters. Before I ask why, or regret not doing more research, I say, “Yes, thanks.”

  The location isn’t residential or industrial, and it’s nowhere near what qualifies as a ghetto. I tell myself I’ll be perfectly safe, even as the voice of reason reminds me I don’t have a phone.

  I tell the voice of reason to shove it and concentrate on keeping my panic at bay. I’m still scared. Terrified. But I refuse to be Liam’s innocent little dove anymore.

  As the cab draws to a stop outside an unmarked black awning in Beverly Hills, I look questioningly toward the driver. “This is it?”

  He nods, turning to give me a grandfatherly frown. “Everyone knows this place.” He hesitates. “You do know what they do in there, right?”

  No.

  “Of course,” I say with confidence I don’t feel. “Someone’s waiting for me. Thanks.” I hand him two twenties and jump out.

  Liam’s fourth mistake—showing me where he keeps rolls of backup cash.

  “Be safe!” calls the cabbie, and drives away.

  Alone on the curb, I look up and down the sidewalk. I’m on a side street just off Wilshire, and the building before me is sandwiched between a boutique hotel and a modern office building. Beyond its black awning and a stylized C on the black door, there are no distinguishing features telling me what kind of establishment this is.

  What the hell is this place?

  I’m seconds from bailing and asking the hotel to call me a cab when a car screeches to the curb right behind me. I spin and stumble back a few steps as all four doors open. At the same time, the black door opens, spilling red light onto the sidewalk.

  I move back further, toward the hotel’s entrance, and watch the car’s passengers emerge. Three women and a man. The women are wearing leather corsets or vests, expensive and tailored, none of which do much to disguise their ample breasts and toned, flat stomachs. One wears a mini-skirt and buttery-soft boots; the other two have on tight pants and spiked heels. The man follows behind.

  When I see him, I finally understand. He’s attractive and young, dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt, his head bowed as he walks behind the women. Around his neck is a thick black collar.

  No wonder the cabbie looked at me like I was nuts.

  A man—valet, I realize—comes through the red doorway, nods to the women, then gets in the car and drives away. The foursome disappear inside, the door left open behind them.

  So many emotions flash through me as I stare at the wash of red light on the sidewalk.

  Curiosity.

  Dread.

  Arousal.

  But the last feeling is the most potent, wiping away all others before it.

  Rage.

  27

  “Whoa there, where do you think you’re going?”

  Except for his height—easily six and a half feet—the speaker is the antithesis of a regular doorman. He’s so thin I immediately want to take him to Al’s for a burger. Long, pale hair falls to either side of a face so angelic I just stare at him with wide eyes.

  Behind him is another door, this one covered in padded leather secured by evenly spaced rivets. It looks sumptuous and dangerous, and I want badly to see what’s behind it.

  “Are you deaf?”

  Blinking, I meet the man’s eyes. In the crimson lightning, I can’t tell what color they are.

  “What do I have to do to get in?”

  He barks a laugh, eyeing me up and down. “Honey, in that dress you’ll be eaten alive in twenty seconds. Run along now and find a sandbox to play in.”

  My eyes narrow in annoyance. “I’m not leaving.”

  “Trust me, you’re better off. A piece like you will send the Doms into a tizzy.”

  My mind supplies me with an image of a snarling pack of animals fighting over my carcass. Fear ricochets up my spine even as irritation straightens it.

  “I’m not a sub,” I snap.

  He laughs loudly. “The hell you aren’t. Besides, we’re invitation only and you’re not on the list.”

  Defeat presses closer, sagging my shoulders. I should have known better. I should have known that where Liam went, I wouldn’t be able to follow.

  “You actually look kind of familiar. Have you been invited before?”

  I have a split second to make the decision. But it’s not a hard one.

  “Yes. My name is Alexis Sharpe.”

  I’m pretty sure if there were normal lighting in the room, I’d see the blood drain from his face. As it is, his throat bobs as he swallows hard.

  “Alexis, of course,” he said breathlessly. “Please forgive me. Your, um, hair is a bit darker and I, uh—”

  “
Whatever,” I say, waving off more stumbling words. “Are you going to let me in or what?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m sorry.” He moves from the door, opening it with flourish. “Enjoy your evening at Crossroads.”

  I step past him, straight into another world.

  All the times I’ve envisioned what the inside of a BDSM club looks like, I never imagined what’s in front of me. All the stereotypes are turned on their heads. The space is open, modern, and bright, with whitewashed brick walls and discreet pendant lighting.

  A gleaming bar takes up the right side, a thick crowd clustered before it. Ahead of me and to the left are various seating areas. Couches and ottomans, rugs and pillows, tables and chairs, all in the same color scheme of white, silver, and muted gold. The only spot in the entire club unoccupied is a sunken circle in the center, just visible through packed tables.

  I look up, and up, and see that over the central pit hangs a heavy iron frame, and suspended from it are various leather contraptions. The sight of it makes my neck crawl. The publicness of it. The awareness that it’s used and enjoyed before a crowd.

  People mill around me, chatting and laughing. They occupy tables and lounge on pillows. If I didn’t know what I was looking at, I might not notice the signs. But I do.

  Collars. A discreet gag. A few blindfolds. Men kneeling beside the chairs of women. Women at the feet of men. Small gestures, challenging glances. A current of passion and play.

  No nakedness. Not yet.

  But the night is young.

  As I scan the crowds looking for Liam, I’m also relieved to see that I don’t stick out in my simple black dress. There’s a wide variety of styles present, from jeans and tank tops, to a woman wearing a bodysuit of bright red patent leather, to a man in a tux.

  I’m working up the nerve to move when a voice behind me purrs, “My, my, what do we have here?”

  A piece like you will send the Doms into a tizzy.

  Bracing myself, I turn around. I recognize the speaker as one of the women I saw walking inside. She’s tall and curvaceous, her dark skin gleaming. Beside her stands the collared man, his head still bowed. A leash now connects to the metal d-ring at the front. The Domme holds the end, swishing the fringed edge across her cleavage.

  Heavy-lidded dark eyes appraise me head to toe. “Whose pet are you?” she asks in a sultry whisper.

  My mind stumbles through variables. If I tell her no one, I’m opening myself up to God knows what kind of attention. And I already know she won’t bite if I tell her I’m not a sub. For one, I have no control over my expression right now, which is borderline freaked-the-fuck-out.

  The man looks up at me, then ducks his head again. There was no fear in his wide blue eyes, but they held a warning nonetheless. Don’t pick the wrong answer.

  Saying a prayer for luck, I tell her, “I’m looking for Liam Rourke.”

  The Domme’s eyes widen. Then she laughs like I told her the joke of the century. “Aren’t they all, dollface?” she asks, still chuckling.

  The lights around the club dim. The Domme steps close to me, close enough that I can smell the cloying vanilla and cinnamon of her skin.

  “If you want Liam Rourke, all you have to do is turn around.”

  28

  I don’t want to turn around. Really don’t want to. But my feet move without my permission, spinning me on my heels. The ambient background music fades and a hush moves over the crowd; murmurs rise and fall like a collective heartbeat of anticipation. The overhead lights continue to dim, but a soft spotlight slowly brightens over the sunken pit.

  Standing in the middle is Liam. My Liam. The easy, carefree version of him. He’s relaxed, hands in his pockets as he smiles and chats with the man beside him. Like there’s not a thing wrong in the world. Like he knows a secret—a thousand secrets about life and love and death—but he’ll never share.

  His companion is built like an underwear model, all chiseled muscles and tanned skin above snug leather pants. At their feet kneels a woman. Naked. Head bowed and arms hanging limply at her sides. She has dark-blonde hair and the most perfect, creamy skin I’ve ever seen.

  For a few seconds, I just stare at Liam’s smile. A pang of longing hits me as I realize how much I’ve missed it.

  But what the fuck does he think he’s doing?

  The Domme and her sub are gone, swallowed by the crowd as it mobilizes and moves toward the railing around the pit. When my view of Liam is obstructed, I skirt around the throngs and slip through bodies until I’m a few people back from the rail.

  I can see his profile but not much else.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” says a smooth female voice over the club’s speakers. “Welcome to this evening’s entertainment!”

  A cheer rises, then mellows into polite applause. The voice continues, “Tonight we have a special treat. Master Liam and Master Dominic will be demonstrating proper technique for horizontal suspension…”

  As she speaks, the metal latticing begins lowering smoothly toward the pit. White noise fills my ears, and I don’t hear the rest of the spiel, only the crowd clapping and whistling at its end. I sway a little, my vision dimming, and a finger taps my shoulder.

  “You okay?” asks a woman.

  I glance back, finding concerned eyes. “Fine, thanks. Just a little dizzy. Forgot dinner.”

  She nods sagely. “Is this your first time at Crossroads?”

  Since she seems normal enough—no crazy Domme vibe—I nod. “What exactly is going to happen?” I ask, nodding toward the pit.

  She smiles. “You came on a great night. Master Liam is awesome. He doesn’t come around much anymore. Word is he has a new sub but doesn’t want her in the lifestyle.” She shrugs. “Anyway, he’s amazing to watch. Get ready for wet panties… if you’re wearing any.” She winks, then waves at someone nearby. Blowing me a saucy kiss, she moves away.

  When I turn back around to face the pit, my palms are clammy and my breathing uneven. I watch Liam and the other man unwinding an apparatus that might as well be medieval torture—horizontal wooden bar, glistening silver chains, black cuffs. Lengths of red rope are removed from another section.

  Even at a distance, I recognize the same type of rope Liam uses. Smooth and sturdy. Capable of creating beauty, enhancing pleasure, and causing pain. I shudder in remembered ecstasy, growing damp between my thighs.

  I hear a whispered question behind me.

  “…doing traditional or shibari?”

  Someone answers, “Whatever he feels like tonight.”

  The hum of the crowd increases, and I sidestep for a better view. At the same time, the person in front of me leaves and another person shifts. The pit is suddenly right in front of me, the action inside it crystal clear.

  The other man—Master Dominic—speaks quietly with the woman. She’s on her feet, nodding to whatever he’s saying. Liam walks toward them, and her focus shifts. Her eyelashes flutter and her knees bend, like she can’t quite support her weight.

  I’m very familiar with the look on Liam’s face right now. The fact that it’s directed at another woman makes me want to burn the world down. Starting with him.

  The metal railing is cool beneath my fingers, hard against my pelvis. Liam’s broad back is just a few feet away. I don’t remember moving.

  As he continues speaking softly to the woman, Master Dominic’s gaze roams the crowd. He nods to a few people in recognition. Then his gaze lands on me.

  Dark, dark eyes sear into mine, full of the same power that Liam possesses. But he’s not Liam. Not safe. My knuckles go white on the railing as I fight the urge to bolt.

  Dominic continues to stare at me, brows drawing together in a frown. His gaze veers to Liam. He murmurs something.

  Liam’s head snaps upright.

  FUCK!

  I turn fast, preparing to dive through the crowd.

  “Stop.”

  Such a small word, spoken gently, but it’s pitched to carry. In it is more than the weight of co
mmand, though that power alone is crippling. Worse, much worse, is its encapsulation of every kiss, every touch, every perfect moment of intimacy we’ve shared.

  I freeze.

  “Turn around.”

  His voice is closer now, nearer the railing. The people around me titter and whisper, moving away from me like I’m contagious. Maybe I am.

  A second passes in which I consider refusal. Consider making a run for it. But I can’t. I just fucking can’t. Not with so many eyes on me. Not with him waiting behind me. Not with the words from the stranger ringing in my ears.

  …doesn’t want her in the lifestyle…

  A different type of anger builds inside me at the thought that he doesn’t want me here. Or maybe I’ve finally had enough of myself—my constant fear and worry—that I’m giving up and taking a back seat.

  Whatever it is, whatever’s happening to me, the feeling squares my shoulders. My eyes on the floor, I turn around.

  “I don’t know whether to whip you or kiss you.” His voice is dry and mild, at odds with the severe amount of trouble we both know I’m in.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” I choke out.

  “Are you?” he asks, and those nearest us chuckle. “However shall I punish my disobedient little dove?”

  “Suspend her!” someone shouts.

  “Paddle!”

  “Put her on the cross!”

  The crowd goes suddenly quiet; I risk a glance up to see Liam’s hand lifted.

  “I know just the thing,” he murmurs, stepping up to the rail. The difference in floor height puts his face just below mine. A finger lifts my chin until I look into his eyes.

  Although I’ve never seen this exact color in his eyes before—they’re dark, almost violet—I know what it represents.

  Fury.

  “You’re going to watch what I do to her. Up close and personal, gagged and bound at my feet.”

  The words sink in, searing through me. I jerk with the force of the pain they cause. His expression doesn’t waver; his anger doesn’t dim.