by Jane Henry
Her phone buzzed again, with an email notification.
Hey Elena,
Got your email. Sorry it’s taken me so long to reply, but I’ve been researching. Got some info you’ll want. Meet me this week for lunch? Shoot me a call.
Gretchen.
She smiled to herself. It would be great to get in touch with Gretchen, and maybe, just maybe, what Gretchen had to tell her would keep her mind off all things Blake.
Chapter 7
“Hey,” Blake said, stepping out of his office and lifting his chin in greeting to Donnie, who was already making his way down the hall. “Trouble at the front bar?” It figured that the one time Blake hadn’t kept his eyes on his security feeds was the one time he was called to handle an incident.
“Yah, sounds like it,” Donnie said, running a hand through the mop of sun-streaked blond hair that made him appear more like a California surfer boy than a hardened kid from Southie, at least until he opened his mouth. “I was down in the Red Room, but Jace called me to come up. Said there was a situation. He called you, too?”
Blake nodded, falling into step with the other man as they headed towards the front entrance.
“We’re about due, eh?” Donnie continued. “Haven’t had a fight or a security issue in a month. Was starting to get a little bored around here, waiting for something to happen. I’m ready to crack some heads.” He jokingly pounded one fist into the palm of the opposite hand and chuckled.
Blake rubbed his chin thoughtfully, but didn’t reply. Donnie was right, it had been quiet recently. Unfortunately, as far as Blake was concerned, it wasn’t a joking matter.
Attendance at The Club was down. It might not have gotten to the point where the bouncers, the part-time Dungeon Masters, or the waitstaff had noticed a significant dip, but when Blake looked at the weekly revenue totals for the past month, the downturn was fairly obvious. Over the last few weeks, having The Club at capacity was the exception, rather than the rule. And he didn’t have to look any further than the front page of today’s Boston Star to know who to blame for the change.
Chalo Salazar and the Church of the Highest fucking Prophet.
Discretion was the hallmark of any successful BDSM club, and The Club was no exception. Over the years, Blake had devoted untold effort and a shit-ton of money to security upgrades, ensuring that his members’ privacy would be protected. He had never gone for any of the quick-but-risky advertising methods he’d seen others try, like hosting open-houses, or even advertising their location in kink-friendly publications. And he’d never allowed his members to fudge the definitions of safe, sane, and consensual as so many fly-by-night clubs (Club Black Box sprang to his mind) had done, in the hope of drawing a larger crowd. Instead, The Club’s reputation had spread slowly, by word of mouth, as a place for well-regulated, discreet kink.
But thanks to the ongoing smear campaign, The Club was now a household name, and the front entrance was monitored by a small band of protesters at random hours of the day.
Goodbye, anonymity.
Though neither Blake nor Slay’s crew had been able to prove a direct link between Salazar and the church, Blake could see that asshole’s fingerprints all over this debacle. From what Blake knew of Salazar, this kind of underhanded vengeance was totally his style. And it was the only way Blake could account for the way the church’s protests against The Club had morphed over the past few weeks from some fire-and-brimstone-type hate mail to a far more incisive, sophisticated, and personal attack.
The church’s initial “Shame on you, sinners!” spiel apparently hadn’t made much of a ripple—not a shock in a place as proudly liberal as Boston—so it appeared they’d decided to change direction. Now, they were trying to frame BDSM as a social justice issue rather than a moral one, and were inciting the masses to protest. Which pissed Blake right the fuck off.
Not the protesting part—God knew, Blake had served his country so that people would have the right to assemble peaceably, to air their grievances in an open forum. But he’d be damned if he’d ever condone an organization using misinformation and inflammatory language to incite protesters for their own gain. And that was exactly what the church had done.
Thanks, no doubt, to Salazar’s money, the church had taken out expensive full-page ads in The Star two Sundays in a row, describing what went on behind The Club’s doors as “exploitation,” “cruelty,” and “abuse,” language not even the most hard-hearted SOB could ignore. They’d gotten hundreds of people to splash twisted “facts” all over social media, calling Blake a “deviant” and submissives “victims.” And it seemed that they’d successfully made The Club, his club, a poster child for every horrifying story of kink-gone-wrong that they could dredge up… or fabricate, as he was all-but-certain was the case with the two women who claimed to have been assaulted in one of The Club’s dungeons by an unidentified dom.
Now, it seemed like almost every concerned citizen in Boston, from rosary-toting grandmas to fresh-faced college students, had taken a turn holding a placard out in front of The Club, or signing an online petition.
He didn’t blame them for being outraged. They were simply directing their outrage at the wrong target. And as soon as he could prove the connection between Salazar and the church, he’d show them what the correct direction was.
In the meantime, his little PR problem was becoming a legitimate business concern. And with Salazar fanning the flames, he doubted that it would be going away anytime soon.
So much for his idea that he’d get things sorted quickly so he and Elena could focus on their relationship. He’d admit, getting to know her better through their texts and phone calls over the past few weeks had been pretty damn sweet. He’d been able to dom her, to keep tabs on her, to make sure she was taking care of herself at all times. More than that, he’d gotten to know her as someone other than Alex Slater’s mouthy little sister, or the leading lady in every one of his sexual fantasies. He’d confirmed a truth he’d long suspected—that the biting humor and sassy attitude he loved hid a core of absolute goodness.
But God in Heaven, he was lusting after the woman like a fucking teenager. The first thing he did in the morning was reach for the phone to check his text messages. The questions she asked during their phone conversations, about rope bondage and implements and total power exchange, fired his imagination like nothing he could remember. And damned if he hadn’t gotten himself off twice this morning just reliving the sound of her moan as she’d come for him on the phone last night. If he didn’t get to fuck his girl again soon, there’d be hell to pay.
Blake took a deep breath. One problem at a time, he reminded himself.
He and Donnie approached the doorway that led from the members-only main bar into the front bar beyond. The door between the two areas was usually left open, though at least one of Blake’s men was always standing guard to ensure that only members and their guests were allowed into The Club itself. Tonight, the door was closed, with Jace apparently on the other side. And the commotion in the front bar was so loud that Blake could hear it, even through the exorbitantly expensive soundproofing insulation he’d had built into the walls. It sounded like… chanting?
He and Donnie exchanged a look.
What the actual fuck?
He pushed open the door, and stepped into chaos.
Dozens of women and men—most of them Elena’s age or a little bit younger, were packed around tables and crowded around the bar, chanting “Sexual Assault is Not Sexy!” He noticed a man in the back sporting a white t-shirt with bright-red lettering that said, “Partnership Not Patriarchy!” And near the front, sat a woman holding a baby, who sported a onesie saying “Don’t Abuse My Mommy!”
Christ.
“Is that a, um…” Donnie stuttered, eyes wide as he caught sight of the child.
“A baby? Yeah, bud.” He clapped the bouncer on the shoulder and asked wryly, “Still feel like cracking heads?”
Donnie turned to give him a disgruntled look.<
br />
Meanwhile, across the room, a pair of women were screaming at Jace and Vickie, who were barricaded behind the bar. Vickie, who had worked at The Club for years, and had been a waitress at a biker bar frequented by Hell’s Angels for years before that, looked absolutely petrified as a protester leaned over the bar and hurled obscenities at her, while another took pictures with a cell phone. Jace, who had taken a position in front of Vickie, stared grimly at the protesters, clearly uncertain of how to handle this situation.
Blake didn’t blame the man. He and Donnie had come out here to deal with a couple of drunks, or maybe a curious person who’d wandered in off the street and wouldn’t take no for an answer from Jace. But a horde of protesters inside the bar? Yeah, that was a new and extremely unwelcome development.
“Jace,” he yelled, his deep voice booming through the crowd. “Get Vickie out of here. Take her back to the break room and hang tight until this is settled.”
Jace nodded and grabbed Vickie’s arm to lead her out from behind the bar, through the crowd of protesters, and into The Club.
Blake stood aside to let them pass, and muttered to Donnie, “Okay, I’ve seen enough. Call the cops. I’ll wait here.”
But apparently Blake had already drawn attention to himself, because a man in the back shouted, “It’s him! The ringleader! Master Blake!”
Blake folded his arms over his chest and gritted his teeth, though a sick feeling churned like acid in his gut. God.
He supposed escalation was inevitable. But how many of his employees’ identities were known? How far would the protesters go? He made a mental note to discuss personal security with every member of his staff, so they could protect themselves and their families. And of all the nights for him to invite Elena…
“He looks just like in the picture online! He is the one who roughed up those two girls last month!” someone else cried.
This was so stunning, Blake felt his jaw drop. Was that Salazar’s plan? Was he now going to have Blake implicated in a crime?
“Stop the innocent act!” a man in the crowd bellowed. “It’s all over the internet! We know what you do to women, you and your club! This isn’t the type of community we want our kids to grow up in!”
“You beat women, you control them, you manipulate them,” another woman added. “’Dominant’ is just a fancy word for misogynist! You prey on women who have no self-esteem!”
It wasn’t the first time Blake had heard an accusation like that about the lifestyle, but it was the first time it had been hurled at him directly. And he couldn’t give a shit what they believed about him¸ but then he thought of the strong, confident submissives he knew—Heidi and Hillary, Tess and Allie, John and Daphne, his Josie… and his Elena. Even knowing that it would do no good, he couldn’t keep silent.
“I suggest you do some research, if you truly believe that,” Blake said grimly. “Not only are you factually wrong in your assumption that all dominants are men, thereby invalidating the experiences of female dominants everywhere, you are fundamentally wrong about what dominance and submission means, and where the ultimate control of a healthy dom-sub relationship lies.”
The crowd seemed to pause, looking amongst themselves, as though they hadn’t expected a rational response. Had they expected him to lash out? Or perhaps to come out clothed in some Fred Flintstone-esque caveman ensemble and grunt at them? He rolled his eyes.
At the front table, the baby took advantage of the sudden silence to crow loudly, waving his chubby hands and grinning a gummy smile directly at Blake. For half a second, Blake felt his lips twitch.
“You can’t expect us to believe the word of the most notorious dominant in Boston!” a woman at the next table barked, fixing him with a glare that might have singed the eyebrows of a lesser man. “You beat those girls!”
Blake shook his head. Nope. He certainly wasn’t going to convince anyone here. But before he could say a word, an all-too-familiar husky voice called out from behind him.
“So, where’s the police report!”
He knew that voice. He’d fantasized about that voice.
Oh. Fuck. No.
“If you all truly believe he’s committed a crime, why hasn’t he been arrested?” the voice demanded.
There were only a couple of times in his life when Blake could recall feeling an absolute disconnect with reality, as though he couldn’t force his brain to believe what his eyes and ears were telling him. The first time had been after a three-day sleep-deprivation military training back in the day, when he’d started having hallucinations. The second had been thirty years later, when Josie’s doctor had looked at them seriously and spoken the words, “Cancer. Metastasized. Terminal.”
The third time was happening right this second.
His woman, his Elena, could not possibly have just walked herself out into a crowd of protesters armed with cell phone cameras, could she? After he’d taken every precaution to keep her out of the public eye, to keep her safe, for the past month?
Once again, the entire crowd seemed to still, and all eyes in the room turned to focus on the newcomer, including Blake’s.
She looked like an avenging angel. That was the first thought that entered his mind. Her black hair tumbled down her back, untidy from when he’d run his fingers through it just a few minutes before. Her face was set in a mask of cold fury, and her dark eyes seemed to shoot sparks of rage at the assembled crowd.
Which, hand to God, was not one-tenth of the rage he felt, watching her endanger herself this way.
“I cannot believe that mature, socially conscious people in this day and age have dragged themselves, and their babies, out here to protest the way that other people choose to have sex!” Elena continued, glaring at one woman after another, in turn, but avoiding Blake’s gaze entirely. “If I were gay or lesbian or transgendered, would you care who I had sex with? If I chose to paint myself from head to foot with tattoos, wouldn’t you all tell me I had a right to do what I wanted with my own body? What in the world makes you think I need you to save me from myself? What makes you think you can make decisions for me when you don’t even know me? Who says you can protest my personal choices just because you don’t agree with them?”
The protesters gaped at her. The one holding the smiling baby in the front row spoke up. “But two women were beaten here at The Club. They said they’re filing a civil suit!”
Elena snorted. “They can say all they like, but no paperwork has been filed. And the police investigation was closed within a day.”
The protesters began muttering to one another and typing rapidly into their smart phones, perhaps in an effort to confirm Elena’s statement.
Blake couldn’t care less what they were doing. He turned and took a step towards his woman, and watched as her gaze met his. Her eyes were wary but defiant, telling him that she’d known exactly how much she’d provoke him by walking out here tonight, and she’d decided it was worth it.
He was proud and fucking pissed in equal measure, his blood pumping through his body like molten metal, setting every nerve ending on fire. He was gonna blister her ass so thoroughly that sitting comfortably would be nothing more than a pleasant memory for the next few days. And then he was going to kiss the shit out of her.
But first, he was going to get her the hell out of here.
He muttered, “Enough,” and placed his hand on her elbow, blocking her from most of the crowd.
She pressed her lips together and looked up at him. “Blake, I—”
“Oh, there’ll be plenty of time for explanations and excuses, baby,” he assured her, giving her a smile that was anything but friendly. Then he leaned closer to whisper in her ear, “When you’re over my knee.”
She swallowed, licked her lips, and nodded.
Then before he could shuffle her back towards the door, which he saw was now standing open, despite being blocked by both Jace and Donnie, Elena shifted her weight to one side and leaned around him.
“The allegatio
ns are total bullshit!” she called to the crowd. “And I suggest you check your facts before you allow yourselves to be riled up. You might be surprised to find that the person bankrolling this whole smear campaign is actually a drug dealer by the name of… mmmph!”
Blake reached out a hand and covered her mouth before she could speak the name. He whirled her around and frog marched her three steps over to the door and into the cool quiet of The Club.
“Blake,” Donnie said in a low voice. “Police are on the way. I’ll call you when—”
“Handle it,” Blake bit out, marching Elena forward, moving his hand from her mouth to her shoulder to steady her.
“Handle it? Myself? Usually it’s you or Slay who…”
Blake paused and spared Donnie a glance. “I trust you, Donnie. If they wanna talk to me, you buzz me. But until that time, you take care of it. Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Donnie said with a firm nod. “I’ve got it, boss.”
“Good man,” Blake said, nudging Elena forward once more.
“Blake, maybe you should—” Elena began, but Blake cut her off.
“Maybe you should take this opportunity to be quiet. Something you should have done ten fucking minutes ago!”
She was silent for the space of four steps before she opened her mouth again.
“But, Blake, honey, maybe—” she began again, breathlessly.
“Not. One. Word.”
“Honey—”
They had reached his office. He pushed the door open with one hand and propelled her inside, closing and locking the door behind him then he turned away, and doubled over, bracing his hands on the desk.
Rage clouded his vision—rage against the church, against the protesters, against Elena herself for walking her ass into danger despite all their combined efforts to keep her safely out of the spotlight over the past few weeks—and he sucked in breath after painful breath in an attempt to control it.
Christ, had he ever had to struggle for control like this? Not for years, for decades, if ever. But then again, when had he been tested like this? No woman had ever been passionate enough, stubborn enough, crazy enough to defy him.
