by J. D. Chase
My heart’s hammering and I feel panic rising. I look to the door and she laughs.
‘Oh, don’t worry, we won’t be disturbed. You can make as much noise as you like. Nobody will take a bit of notice.’
She bends down and picks up a leather holdall. She places it on the bed. I’m fucked. And not in a good way.
I WAKE TO MY buzzer sounding repeatedly. It always pisses me off. Like I’m going to get to the door any faster. In fact, if anything, it’s likely to make me take my time. Fucking imbeciles. I glance at the display on my alarm. It’s a little after one. If it wasn’t for my concern for The Kid being disturbed, I’d leave it. One of my neighbours is either pissed or has lost their key. Again. I’ll make them think twice about pushing my button again.
By the time I’ve pulled a tee-shirt over my naked body and padded to the intercom, some fucker is banging on my door like the place is on fire. I don’t care who it is. I don’t care what’s happening. I’m going to throat punch whoever is on the other side of this fucking door.
I yank it open, my lungs filling ready to supply a barrage of abuse.
‘What the fucking h—’
I’m rendered speechless.
Dean’s friend, the former Marine, who was with him the night I met him is standing there holding . . .
My stomach lurches. I know something bad has happened, from the serious expression on GI Joe’s face and the limp body he’s cradling in his arms. It’s Dean.
All the aggression leaves my body, replaced with concern. Concern and irritation.
I usher him into the living room and indicate for him to put Dean on the sofa. I pray that The Kid hasn’t heard the commotion.
I whisper, ‘Give me two minutes. Please don’t make a sound.’
With a nod of his head, he leans over and gently places his friend on the sofa. As I tiptoe out of the room, I hear the sound of Dean moaning softly. I sigh. Can’t I have just one night of interrupted sleep? One drama free night? Is that too much to ask?
I creep into The Kid’s room. He’s completely still. I tiptoe up to the bed, finding it incredible that he’s slept through the noise. He usually wakes if I so much as get out of bed. Then I see a thin cable and I know the reason why; he’s fallen to sleep with his iPod playing. I bend down, closer and I can just hear the tinny sounds. I smile in relief. The poor thing’s probably shattered with all of my comings and goings lately.
I push the guilt away as I creep out and back to the living room. At least we can talk without disturbing him now. I push the door to. Soldier boy turns to face me. He’s taken a seat in the only free chair. He hops up guiltily but I wave him back down. I perch myself on the sofa near Dean’s feet.
‘What happened? Is he pissed? Don’t tell me he got on the wrong side of the bouncers again.’
He shrugs. ‘He’s had a drink but I don’t think he’s pissed. I couldn’t tell you what happened. I was on my way home and I got a call from him. At least I thought it was him; it was his number. It was some guy from Vouloir. Gabe, I think he said his name was.’
I nod, trying to ignore the horrible gnawing feeling in my gut.
‘Anyway, he asks if I can pick locks. Dean had apparently told him that I could. And that if I can, could I get myself to the club immediately. I’m thinking fuck off . . . I mean, forget it. It’s midnight, for God’s sake. I tell him that I’ll be over tomorrow but he says I need to come now. Dean’s trapped and in pain. So I shoot over there and find him cuffed to a bed. He’s in a bad way. I tell the barman to call an ambulance but he says he doesn’t want to but will take him to hospital if I can get him free. Dean’s barely conscious but he says he wants to go to you. I get to work on the lock. The barman explains that they’re not club cuffs—that using your own, with a different lock, is banned. He’s fuming. The woman Dean was with has fucked . . . vanished. But, basically it looks like sex games gone wrong. That’s what it looks like to me and the barman is more or less of the same opinion. He said that calling the police or any emergency services is avoided where possible to prevent the club being closed down. That matters were sorted out internally.’
‘Does he need hospital treatment?’ I ask, praying that the answer was no.
He shrugs. ‘I didn’t look. The barman took care of dressing him once I’d got the cuffs off, but I could tell from his face, that he’s not in a good way. The barman says he couldn’t cope with the pain that some woman inflicted on him. There’s no blood thankfully. I’m no medic but it looks to me that he’s gone into shock—if he’s suffered pain at a high enough level, that’s possible. I’ve seen men go into shock when they’re in agonising pain. I’m told the parasympathetic nervous system decreases the heart rate and blood pressure falls. Assuming the severe pain has ceased, with rest, he should recover quickly enough. Of course, that’s if that’s what we’re dealing with. I can’t make any guarantees.’
I sigh heavily. This is all I need. I fucking told him not to do anything.
But then guilt rears its head. If I hadn’t had to dash to the hospital for Dan . . . but I can’t be in two places at once. Dan was the urgent priority—or so I thought.
What a fucking mess.
I lean over and check his pulse. It’s regular and strong. He’s a fit guy, thankfully. His colour isn’t spectacular but that’s no surprise. I think Jones is right, Dean’s body has gone into shock. He’s mentally shut down as a result of the pain and the emotional trauma. Temporarily. Thank goodness. But who knows what damage has been done? He was in a fragile enough state as it was. I don’t want him here but I know I have a duty to look after him until he’s in a fit state to leave.
Just what I fucking need. Like a hole in the head.
‘Does Gabe know who the woman was?’ I ask, figuring that I’d call her and find out just what had happened. But then, even as I ask I realise that nobody that was willing to leave the scene would be willing to answer my call.
He shrugs. ‘I didn’t ask him. Sorry.’
I take a moment to study the man next to me. As a former Marine, he’s virtually guaranteed to have seen things that people should never see. I haven’t seen him in Vouloir before—except the night that I met Dean. He had explained then that he knew Dean through work and that he was worried about him. He doesn’t frequent the club. I’d know. I wonder what he makes of the whole business.
His gaze turns to mine and our eyes lock. My heart starts to thump in my chest. I drop my gaze quickly. Something I never do.
But there’s something about this man that unnerves me. No, not just something . . . I know exactly what it is.
He reminds me too much of someone from my past. The height. The build. Blond hair. Blue eyes. No, not just the colour, there’s a similarity in their depths. A distance, an intensity . . . I can’t explain it. Okay, so the eyes looking back at me don’t have that cold-as-ice brutality but I bet they could.
Two extreme alpha males.
One’s evil.
I shudder and drop my gaze. That’s when I realise I’m wearing an oversized tee-shirt and nothing else. Fuck it. I haven’t noticed. I’m used to wearing little.
‘Right, well thanks for coming to his aid. I’ll take it from here,’ I say.
Nodding, he gets to his feet. ‘Just one thing . . . ’ He pauses and looks down at the floor.
‘Yes?’ I prompt.
‘Finding Dean cuffed to the bed like that . . . does that mean he’s a sub?’
I open and close my mouth. Client confidentiality is important to me.
‘I’m sure you will appreciate that work with Dean is confidential. If Dean wants to talk about it with you, I’m sure he will.’
He smiles, a cocky smile that makes my stomach fall to the floor. ‘Fair enough. But can I ask what your role in the BDSM world is?’
He knows. Of course, he does. That arrogant smile tells me as much. ‘I’m a sexual therapist who specialises in BDSM matters.’
Nicely deflected. I mentally high five myself.
> One side of his mouth hitches—it’s half smile, half smirk. ‘But how can you specialise without experience?’
I scowl. I should have seen that coming. ‘Maybe I have several roles.’ I intend my reply to be vague enough to satisfy his curiosity.
‘Ah . . . a switch?’
‘No,’ I retort, more forcefully than necessary. I’ve nothing against switches. In fact, it hits a little too close to home—especially when speaking to a man who looks like this.
He nods, his smile growing.
‘What?’ I demand.
‘I know you’re a Domme. I guess I was just curious as to why you wouldn’t admit to it.’
‘How do you know? Into the lifestyle yourself, are you?’ I ask, defensively.
He chuckles softly and I feel my hands clench into fists. ‘The easy answer is that I asked at the club.’
I narrow my eyes. ‘And the not-so-easy answer?’
‘I know a little bit about the lifestyle but, after visiting Vouloir a couple of times to check on Dean, I decided to do a little more research.’
‘Ah, so now you’re an expert?’ Sarcasm radiates from me.
It slides off him. Mr Teflon. ‘No, but I’m thinking I’d like to experiment. But first, I’d like to know more.’
Damn him. To me, that’s the perfect answer and one that I’d usually have no hesitation in pursuing. But not with him. Even if I don’t take care of it myself, whether it be an informal introduction to the lifestyle or a full-on mentoring, there is no way I want this guy to begin frequenting Vouloir. Every time I look at him, it’s like facing up to my past. Or is it a reminder that I’m running from it? I don’t know.
‘I can give you a personal recommendation to someone I know in a club in Hackney. It’s invite only. If you’re interested, I’ll give you their web address and you can take it from there.’
He looks at me blankly before frowning. ‘But what about Vouloir? I think I’d feel more comfortable there. I know Dean and yourself . . . okay, I don’t know you, know you but a friendly face is appreciated. I also thought about asking you to consider taking me on as a private client. Just a few sessions perhaps, where I could tell you what’s in my head.’
I know exactly what’s in his head. He’s a controlling alpha male. It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.
I shake my head. ‘I’m sorry. Membership is full at Vouloir and so is my client list.’ My tone has a finality that almost makes me flinch.
I see surprise flicker in his eyes, just for a second.
‘Fair enough,’ he concedes, although I have a feeling that he thinks it’s anything but.
Just then a groan interrupts the awkward silence. We both turn to the source, lying next to me.
Dean’s eyelids flicker like butterfly wings before opening. His face is pale but not deathly. There is a sheen of clamminess on his brow.
‘Hey,’ I say softly.
I watch his eyes struggle to focus on me. When they do, they widen in alarm before he panics, scrabbling to get away from me. He attempts to run from me but his legs buckle as soon as he puts weight on them. He falls to the floor like a boxer going down in the losing round.
My eyes meet his friend’s. He’s as shocked as I am.
I fall to my knees saying, ‘It’s okay, Dean. You’re safe now.’
He curls into a ball making unintelligible noises of distress.
His friend kneels next to him. ‘Dean, it’s Jones. You’re not at Vouloir now. You’re safe. Your therapist is here. She’s here to help, Dean.’
Dean stills.
Jones reaches out and touches his arm. He flinches. Jones looks to me. Helpless.
‘Dean. It’s me. La Veuve Noire. You are in my home. Jones brought you here. I don’t know what happened at the club. Gabe, the barman, called Jones. Do you remember? He came and got you. You asked him to bring you here.’
Gradually, I see his frame relax.
‘Come on,’ I say softly. ‘Come, sit on the sofa.’
There’s no response for a few seconds but then he raises his head and looks around but avoids looking at me or Jones directly.
I get it. He’s embarrassed. I know that pointing it out by telling him not to be could make it worse. So I ignore him for a few seconds to allow him to decide how to proceed.
Stiffly, he gets up and sits on the sofa, at the far end. He keeps his eyes downcast.
A distraction—that’s what’s needed. I get up from the floor.
‘Would either of you like a drink? A hot one perhaps?’
Jones looks to me. I can see from his expression that he knows what I’m doing. Grudgingly, I award him a merit point. Well, half a point. In my experience, men tend to react badly in situations such as this.
‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I’d love a coffee.’
I smile gratefully. ‘How do you take it?’
‘As it comes,’ he says with the smallest of smiles.
I give a small laugh. This is good. Normality in an abnormal situation is what Dean needs. ‘You haven’t tasted my coffee.’ I pull a face but it’s true. There’s a reason The Kid makes the coffee around here. ‘How would you take it, given the choice?’
‘Black. Strong. Unsweetened,’ he says without hesitation.
‘Got you,’ I say. ‘What about you Dean?’
‘Tea,’ he whispers.
Jones gives me a look that says ‘strong and sweet.’ Don’t ask me how. I guess it’s the drink of choice after a drama.
‘No problem,’ I say cheerily.
The whole time I’m in the kitchen, I’m anxious. I keep the door open and keep watch in case Dean attempts to bolt. I know it’s stupid—Jones is in there but I can’t help it. I curse the kettle for taking too long to boil—although it’s not long at all. My hands spill coffee granules all over the work surface . . . then sugar . . . the boiling water. At this rate, I’ll be lucky if I manage to carry anyone’s drink through without dropping it, or sloshing it everywhere.
Somehow, I do . . . well, there’s some sloshing but nothing major. As soon as Jones sees me arrive, he springs forward and pulls the coffee table closer to the sofa. I give him a smile of thanks and place the drinks down on the table, realising as I bend down that I’m still half naked.
‘Just give me a minute,’ I say then shoot to my bedroom to pull on a pair of jeans. I almost return but, looking down, I know that it’s blatantly obvious that I’m not wearing a bra. That’s not something that usually bothers me in my own home but, in the presence of two guys, I think it’s best that I cage the ladies. I ignore the little voice saying that it’s only the presence of one of them that’s causing me any discomfort.
Suitably restrained, I head back and settle myself on the sofa, across from Dean. The room is still silent.
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t meet you tonight, Dean. I got a call from the hospital. A child in crisis that I had to speak with as soon as he came out of surgery.’
No response. Well, not from Dean but I see Jones’ eyebrows lift.
Yeah, ignoramus . . . you think that sex therapists only deal with the physical act of copulation—telling people how to get it up right. I feel a surge of distaste towards him but I know it’s unwarranted. It’s a mistake that most people make. It’s also got something to do with the fact that I can’t help but register those blue eyes underneath the leaping eyebrows. Iris with an indescribable colour—akin to a Norwegian glacier—although they’re not cold or hostile. Not right now, anyway.
‘It’s okay.’
I almost miss it, Dean’s barely spoken whisper. Too busy thinking about—oh, for fuck’s sake.
I turn to Dean. He’s still not looking at either of us. ‘It’s most certainly not okay, Dean. I fucked up. And you have no idea how sorry I am.’
Finally, his eyes flick to mine but they quickly drop away. ‘You had a crisis. No apology necessary. I . . . I fucked up.’
I swallow. I don’t want to push him. But I need to know. ‘How?’ My tone is gentl
e.
His gaze bounces off Jones and back to his lap. I get it. Amazingly, so does Jones.
‘I think it’s time I was getting going,’ he says, although his untouched, steaming coffee belies his deception.
Another begrudging bonus point.
I turn and smile before getting to my feet. He follows suit.
Opening the door with the intention of seeing him out, I wait for him to say goodbye to Dean.
What’s that? Crap, it’s my phone. I begin to scurry to my bedroom but it quiets as soon as I start. Cursing heavily, I dash inside and grab it. Before I can see who called, it rings again. It’s Bernie.
My heart sinks and is immediately swallowed up in guilt. If I’m needed, I’m needed.
‘Hey Bernie. Long time, no hear.’ My joke is lame but I’m too tired to care.
She doesn’t even seem to hear it. ‘Dan’s gone,’ she says simply.
My heart doesn’t just sink. It plummets to the floor, making my stomach churn.
‘Gone? What do you mean gone?’ My near hysteria shows in my voice. Yes, I’m every inch the hardened professional. Not to mention a sarcastic bitch.
‘Calm down. Gone as in left the hospital . . . oh God, not gone as in . . . ’ she pauses and continues in a heavier tone. ‘Well, not yet anyway.’
I collapse onto the bed as relief threatens to buckle my knees. ‘How the fucking hell has he left the hospital?’ My tone is harsher than it should be. It’s not Bernie’s fault. I know she’s not even on duty. But for fuck’s sake, how the hell can a teenager who is supposed to be watched constantly just up and leave the hospital? I can’t help but think I should have made my move and got him out of there hours ago. If I’d known it would be that simple, I would have.
‘I’ve no idea. Neither does anyone else. They’re trying to view the security footage now. But there’s a two-hour window—’
‘A two-hour window?’ I shriek. ‘He wasn’t observed for a whole two hours? Fucking hell, Bernie. And don’t you dare quote NHS cutbacks . . . that’s no fucking excuse.’
I hear her sigh. Guilt overwhelms me. It’s not her fault. ‘I’m sorry, Bernie. It’s just . . . ’
