Vouloir

by J. D. Chase

  I turn away and think about the coming week. Bernie has reluctantly agreed to call me, as per our original agreement. My phone didn’t ring all last week and I’m just hoping that it was a quiet week. If I get wind of her fobbing me off, there’ll be trouble.

  Dean is back at work. He’s struggling with his demotion but his boss was absent for most of his first week so that helped. When she returned, she came back as part of a couple. It seems that Dean was right; she had been sleeping with the married owner of the hotel. Dean hates him and I get the feeling it’s mostly a mutual dislike. However, his conditioning is coming on well and, if he keeps it up, I may consider offering him a bar job at Vouloir. But not yet. He’s just not ready. The only fly in Dean’s ointment is that he is getting very possessive of me. You’d think he was my slave, not my client.

  I’ve had it out with him and he’s backed off a little but he’s still struggling with his mummy issues . . . I think he’s transferring his attachment from his mother to me. It’s in his best interests to get out from under her roof but not at my expense . . . and I’m not talking money.

  I hear my phone ring and pray (to whomever may be listening) that I’ve not tempted fate already and it isn’t Bernie calling.

  It isn’t. It’s Helene, Thierri’s sub. And she wants to see me. Like now. I can hear in her voice that she’s upset but she won’t talk to me over the phone. Yeah, I’d say my good week was coming to an abrupt end . . .

  WHY IS IT THAT whenever you’re in a rush, traffic always seems worse? My cab’s been stuck in traffic for ages and, if it wasn’t for the six-inch heels strapped to my feet and the heat from that sun, it would have been quicker to walk. And it’s a Sunday for fuck’s sake. At least I know The Kid’s safe while I’m gone. Safe would be an understatement; he’s almost welded to Jones these days. Last night, he wanted to go to work with him. Jones laughed it off as a joke but I know my charge wasn’t joking.

  I found out what they’re up to outside: they were huddled over a tablet that Jones bought for The Kid. His face was like a three-year-old’s on his birthday—something that The Kid hasn’t experienced in his miserable lifetime. He was playing a racing game and even I could tell how poor his fine motor skills are. But I know what a quick learner he is. I hadn’t thought about technology so all our lessons and his free time had been spent with our heads in a book or with a good old pencil in our hands.

  Begrudgingly, I have to hand it to the former Commando, he’s managed not just speeding up The Kid’s progress but increasing the enjoyment factor too. Not to mention getting him outdoors. I hadn’t believed he was ready. Every time I’d tried, he scooted back to his room and closed the door. Maybe it’s a macho thing—he wouldn’t have wanted to lose face in front of such a fine specimen of alpha male.

  Fine specimen? Where the hell did that come from?

  To most people he’s a fine alpha male. And I guess I have to concur . . . I’ve just been close enough to lick those tattoos . . . my tongue would rise and fall over the contours of his muscles and—

  Jesus Christ! What’s wrong with me? I need to get laid. I’m clearly not getting enough.

  I look out of the window at the throngs of people milling around the city centre in this heat and curse them—if they didn’t keep pressing the button to cross the roads, the traffic would be flowing.

  I try to distract my mind but my previous thought was depressingly accurate. I’m not getting enough. And, oddly, I hadn’t noticed until now that this week, I’ve not even had any cock action. Depressingly, I realise that the old pink canoe is drifting downstream without a paddle.

  Fuck. I think I’ve lost my libido.

  Bronzed muscles with patterns of ink begin to swim into my mind, mocking me. I push them out and huff. It’s not my fault that there’s a lack of suitable male subs in Vouloir at the moment. I begin to mentally scroll down my client list.

  No! I don’t fuck clients just for the sake of it. Good God, what the hell is going on in my head?

  I dig in my purse for enough to cover what’s showing on the cabbie’s meter and then I push the door open.

  Six-inch heels and scorching heat it is then. I need to clear my head before I do something stupid.

  I arrive at the club, the heat making me uncomfortable and irritable. I unlock the back door and let myself in. I doubt there’s anyone in yet, unless Helene has managed to get through the traffic more successfully than me.

  I step inside the club room and note that the bar is lit up but nobody’s around. Either Gabe or Helene is in the building.

  I was wrong. I find them both in the office. Helene is crying rivers and Gabe looks so relieved to see me.

  ‘Hey,’ I say softly as I approach, looking questioningly to Gabe. He shrugs and pulls a face saying he has no idea.

  When she registers my presence, she throws herself at me, almost knocking me flat on my back. I hug her to me, holding her until the howling sobs subside. I gesture to Gabe to get the drinks in. Helene is not overly emotional. She may be a sub but, contrary to common belief, they’re not all weak, fragile creatures. Helene is one tough cookie who chooses to submit to her Master, Thierri.

  When Gabe returns with a tray of steaming cups of tea and a bottle of bourbon. I guess he was unsure but wanted to get it right—the mark of a good sub. I give him a grateful smile as he places it on the desk. I steer Helene into the small sofa across from him and hand out the drinks. Tea—for now.

  Tea very quickly becomes bourbon. And the refills come quickly too.

  She’d arrived at Thierri’s to visit him—as previously agreed with his sister. His miserable, vanilla sister had moved in when his health took a drastic turn for the worse a few months ago. She disapproves of his relationship with Helene—always has. Helene lived with him for years but, when he felt that the burden of his health was unfair for her to bear, he insisted that she moved out. He employed nurses to come and see to his medical needs, thinking that he was saving Helene the trouble, despite her protestations that she loved him and wanted to care for him.

  But he’s a hard Dominant. Always has been and once his mind is made up, that’s it. There’s no going back—regardless of whether he finds he’s made a mistake. He might have lost a lot of weight, slimming down from the six-foot-six bear of a man that he’d once been but he’d lost none of his spirit. Until now it seems.

  It’s never been a secret that, when he died, Vouloir would pass to Helene and myself. We could only sell it if we both agreed—neither could force the sale on the other. The club would continue to be run by a small team of reliable managers as it is now but I’d be the one to oversee and step in when required—as I do now. Helene would be consulted on planned changes, if she so desired, but would be a silent partner receiving a share of the profits to see her to the end of her days. Unless we sold it, then her share of the lump sum would do the same.

  He has a will. I’ve seen it. Helene has seen it. Gabe and several others have seen it. But now, as his health deteriorates rapidly, it seems there is no will. Or so Thierri’s sister says. She says he’s dying intestate and everything will fall to her as his closest surviving relative. Odd, because all his life, he barely spared her a thought. When he did, he ridiculed her for her lack of experience and her readiness to judge people. She was a Jehovah’s Witness who preached.

  But that’s not what’s upsetting Helene. She couldn’t give a flying fuck about the money. She does however care about Vouloir and knows that it will cease to exist the moment Thierri draws his last breath. But that isn’t the cause of the tears either.

  No, she arrived to visit him only to be informed that she’s been banned from his house by his sister. The door was opened slightly, secured by a heavyweight security chain, and the bitch-from-hell sister had informed Helene that she was no longer welcome there. Thierri’s orders. She also said that he didn’t have long but his wish was that Helene did not attend the funeral because it was a time for family and loved ones.

  Mental
ly, I picture a coffin in a Kingdom Hall, then a crematorium with just his sister in attendance—or worse, all of her cronies. He has no other family . . . and there are many club members who would want to pay their respects.

  Helene had argued that he had already declared his wishes. His will contained his ideas for a funeral—more like a carnival than a traditional funeral. No tears, BDSM attire compulsory . . . you get the picture. An opportunity to let our freak flags fly as we gave him the send-off he wanted and deserved. An event that would be talked about for months, if not years, in the community. None of the employees or associates from his former ‘business’ would be welcome. He left that behind about ten years ago, as far as I know. Washing his hands of the whole dirty business.

  But I doubt very much his sister knows anything about that part of his life. Few do. I don’t know much. But I know enough. Enough to make Thierri my first point of contact when The Kid burst into my life. Tracking down the man responsible for The Kid’s miserable existence was something that Thierri could help me with. Tracking him down and taking him out.

  But Thierri had been rushed into hospital the following day after suffering a massive stroke. His memory was severely impaired along with many other bodily functions. While battling to save his life, they found he had advanced colorectal cancer. At first, it was thought the cancer had spread locally, breaking through the wall of the bowel into surrounding tissues in the abdomen. However, it was soon determined that it had spread to his liver, possibly his lungs.

  At Helene’s urging, he tried various treatments: palliative chemotherapy and biological therapies, aiming to shrink and control the bastard disease. We all knew there would be no miraculous cure. Helene was like a woman possessed. She confronted the cancer like a mortal enemy, warding it off and keeping it at bay for as long as she could. But, although it was successful to some degree, Thierri’s quality of life was impaired so much that, in one of his more lucid moments, he called time on the fight.

  The second he gave up on the idea of living and began to concern himself with the business of dying, his sister took an interest. She tried to take control of the club—openly declaring that she’d close down ‘the brothel,’ the second he signed it over to her. He laughed in her face, telling her there was no way he’d ever sign Vouloir over to her. But then, as the disease ravaged his already unhealthy body—years of good living had taken its toll—he lost the will to stand up to her sometimes and she worked on him to move Helene out. Then she moved in a couple of months ago.

  ‘Fucking bitch!’ I spit out when she finishes. ‘She can’t do this. I don’t give a shit about inheriting Vouloir but she can’t go against his wishes and she can’t keep you, the only person he’s ever loved, away from him in his final days. Nor his funeral. I’ll strangle the cow. I’ll—’

  ‘He loves you,’ Helene says softly. ‘He may never have told you. He rarely told me. But he loves you. You are the daughter he never had. The times I’ve seen him agitated and it was because he was worried about you. The times I’ve seen him grin like the village idiot when you accomplished something. You showed him that, despite everything, it was possible to win a clean fight. That we all have choices and it’s up to us to take the right ones. That’s when he walked away from his empire, you know. And why. You, Veuve. You.’

  I didn’t know that. I had no idea. I blink rapidly, my lashes going up and down faster than a whore’s drawers, but I can’t hold back the tears. I wish I’d known. He knows how I feel about him. He saved my life. Twice. I owe him everything. He became my mentor when I began my D/s journey. I’m the only Domme to have that privilege; that and forcing him to respect Dommes as equals—something that he’d previously failed to do. But since then, we’d seen eye to eye and kept a respectable distance as Dominants do. Even when he had the diagnosis and went through the treatment, I kept a respectable distance, harassing Helene for updates every day, knowing that it was what he’d expect from me. And what he’d want.

  Now all I want to do is throw my arms around him and tell him that I love him.

  I’ve accepted that he’s dying. That he doesn’t have long. It’s the thought of not seeing him before he dies . . . him dying alone—except for that miserable excuse for a human being . . . and not having the funeral he wanted . . . that’s at the root of my tears.

  ‘I’ll fight her,’ I say, savagely. ‘If the will still exists, I’ll find it. That will help to ensure his wishes about the funeral and beyond are followed. And once I have proof that she’s lying, I’ll have her arse out of there faster than she can say Jehovah. If I can’t find the will—if she’s destroyed it, I’ll find a way to get her out. I promise you, Helene.’

  She nods and whispers, ‘Thank you. But I’m not sure you can win this one.’

  I hug her to me. This woman who so long ago showed me such kindness, despite the fact that she barely knew me. And despite the fact that her Master had brought me to her home, naked and scared. She asked no questions but simply gave me what she felt I needed. She was where I learned my affinity for hope. As she cared for me, she would whisper, ‘Never give up hope. Even when hope is all you have.’

  Now I will give her what she needs. I will give her hope.

  I give her one final squeeze as my lips repeat her wise words. ‘Never give up hope.’

  She squeezes me back before pulling away from me. ‘Right now, hope is all I have,’ she says through wobbly lips and then turns and leaves.

  I leave the club not long afterwards. I need to get home. I need to sit down and figure out how I determine whether Thierri still has a will. And how, regardless of that, I get rid of his leech of a sister. There are times that the skills of human psychology are useless—at least on their own. There are times when more is needed. I need someone who does all that covert, undercover shit. I need a James Bond.

  Dean’s words ring in my ears. When he’d returned to me last week, full of disgust for what he’d just witnessed he’d said, ‘You want to watch James Bond. He’s no better than Elaine. He’s just grabbed a blonde and fucked her, without foreplay or even asking her name. Then, he’s thrown money at her and left.’

  I hadn’t a clue what he was talking about. I mean, Royal Marines are hardly MI5 now are they? But I’ll bet a man like that is well connected.

  No, I can’t. I can’t ask him for a favour. I don’t want to be indebted to him. I already feel like I am because of the time he spends with The Kid—although that’s not for me, that’s for The Kid’s benefit.

  I walk a short way down the alley before bringing my feet to a halt as a light bulb goes on over my head.

  This wouldn’t be for me. It would be for Helene. And Thierri. Okay, for me too but predominantly them.

  And he might not even be able to help anyway. Maybe he is just a glorified Action Man.

  Before I can change my mind, I whip out my phone and call him.

  ‘Jones,’ he answers on the second ring.

  ‘Hi, it’s La Veuve Noire. Are you still at mine with The Kid?’ Please say yes, please say yes.

  ‘No, sorry. I left there around ten minutes ago. Why? Problem?’ I could almost hear his brain whirring.

  I debate whether to tell him outright what I need or to ask him whether he can help with that sort of thing. I decide it amounts to the same thing.

  ‘I need your help,’ I say simply.

  ‘I’ll be there in two,’ he says and hangs up.

  Lo and behold, I’ve not even reached the top of the alley and he pulls up in front of me.

  ‘Get in,’ he says, pushing the passenger door open. I note that he’s not wearing a tee-shirt.

  I bristle. I’m not used to doing as I’m told. But I told Helene to have hope and right now, Jones is my hope so I get in. The interior of the car is blissfully cool.

  He pulls off. I assume he’s taking me home but then he turns off and begins to head in the wrong direction.

  He doesn’t speak; he just drives. I, for once, am unsure of myself. Sho
uld I tell him as he’s driving? But he hasn’t asked . . . and there’s an odd atmosphere. Not negative or hostile, just . . . odd.

  Within a few minutes, the atmosphere begins to charge. It’s that alpha shit again. It’s radiating off him in waves. But still he says nothing. Does nothing.

  I think I’ve made a mistake. I can’t work with him. It would be too complicated. Too uncomfortable. Maybe I should ask him whether he can recommend someone—after all, I’m not even sure he’s got the skills and contacts to help me. I’m assuming, that’s all. Yeah, I’ll ask him.

  I open my mouth to do just that but he beats me to it.

  ‘So, what do you need from me, exactly?’ he says confidently.

  The idea of needing anything from him makes me uncomfortable. ‘I thought you might be able to help me. I need to get hold of some information. I thought you may know someone who could help.’

  From the corner of my eye, I see him nod but he says nothing. The silence resumes.

  ‘So do you?’ I blurt out eventually. I’ve worked out that we’re heading away from my flat and I’m beginning to feel more than slightly disconcerted. ‘Because I don’t wish to be rude, but I need to get back to The Kid and you’re driving in the opposite direction. You haven’t even told me where we’re going.’

  ‘Do you always ramble on when you’re nervous?’ he says.

  ‘I’m not nervous,’ I snap. ‘I just don’t appreciate being taken on a drive without knowing where I’m going never mind being given the courtesy of being asked whether I’d like to go wherever it is that we’re going.’

  ‘You’re doing it again,’ he says and I want to smack the smugness out of him.

  He’s right. I ramble when I’m anxious. Which doesn’t happen very often. But despite seeing him most days lately and seeing how warmly The Kid responds to him, I still feel awkward around him.