The Bondage Club

by Alexandrea Weis

  “Chris, I’m getting you a cab,” Hunter growled.

  “I don’t need a cab, little brother. I can drive.”

  “No, you’re not driving, especially not with my employee.” Hunter looked down the street. “Where are you parked?”

  Appearing a bit unsteady on his feet, Chris waved off his concern. “Forget it, Hunter.” He began stumbling down the sidewalk, dragging Cary by the hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Hunter ripped Cary away from Chris. “You always do this when you drink, Chris. You get belligerent and become obnoxious.”

  As Hunter was pulling Cary back to his side, Chris wheeled around and took a swipe at his brother. The blow landed squarely on Hunter’s left jaw, knocking him backwards.

  “Son of a bitch!” Hunter yelled, grabbing at his jaw.

  Cary rushed to Hunter, who was wobbling on his feet. “Are you all right?”

  “Hey, I didn’t mean it, Hunter.” Chris came up to him, patting Hunter’s shoulder. “You never were very good at getting out of my way.”

  Hunter stood up and immediately punched his brother on the side of his left cheek. Chris’s head snapped back just as Cary’s short shriek cut through the air. The pain that shot through Hunter’s hand when his fist connected with Chris’s face hurt more than his throbbing jaw. When he stumbled away from his brother, Hunter was shaking out his hand and cursing under his breath.

  “What is it with the two of you?” Cary screeched.

  “What in the hell did you do that for?” Chris screamed, clutching his cheek.

  Holding his sore right hand, Hunter howled, “Because I felt like it, asshole.”

  Chris took a few shaky steps backward, appearing as if he was going to fall to the ground. “You were always such a stupid jerk, Hunter.” He gestured for Cary to join him. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”

  “Are you kidding me?” She shook her head, pointing at him. “I’m not getting in a car with you.”

  Chris had his hand to his cheek and his glazed over eyes were burning into Cary. “Find your own way home then,” Chris grumbled and staggered away.

  Cary went after him, but Hunter seized her arm. “Let him go.”

  “You can’t be serious?” She broke free of his grip. “He can’t drive. Aren’t you going to stop him?”

  “No.” Hunter held up his left hand, and jingled the keys he had in them. “I swiped his keys from his jacket pocket when I punched him. Stupid bastard is so drunk he didn’t even notice.”

  “You swiped his keys?” she tittered, grinning.

  “I used to pick the keys from his pocket all the time when he came home from college and then take his car at night. I got pretty good at it. It used to really piss him off.” Hunter wanted to roar with delight. He could not remember when he had ever felt such satisfaction in his brother’s anger.

  Cary took his right hand and examined his red, swollen knuckles. “You need to ice this.” Her fingertips grazed his left jaw, sending a spark through his groin. “You need to ice that, too.”

  Steadying his defenses, he eased her hand away from his face. “I’ll take care of it later.” Gazing about the street, he declared, “Right now I need to get you a cab.”

  “You’re not going to find a cab down here at this hour.” She wrapped her arm about his. “I’ll call for one from your place.”

  “My place?” A sudden feeling of dread rose up his spine.

  “You took a pretty good hit, and I would feel better knowing you got home all right.”

  He waved down the street. “Perhaps you should see to my brother. He’s the one in need of a babysitter, not me.”

  She tucked the small black purse under her arm. “But I would rather go home with you.”

  “You’re not going home with me, Cary.”

  Her dark eyes traveled the contours of his face. “Do you honestly think I could leave my boss traipsing around downtown Atlanta in the middle of the night?”

  In the half-light from the streetlight above, he tried to gauge the depth of her concern. He had always considered himself very astute at figuring out women, but for the first time he was absolutely befuddled by one. Hunter was intrigued, but at the same time petrified by the thoughts gathering behind those intoxicating dark eyes.

  “All right, you win, Cary.”

  A teasing smile blossomed on her lips. “I always do, Hunter.”

  With a puzzled look on his face, Hunter let Cary lead him away from the lights surrounding the gallery and into the dark shadows that lined Walker Street. He may not have wanted Cary to go home with him, but stronger than his determination to keep the relationship strictly business was his desire to appease her. It had been a long time since he had felt that way about anyone, but Cary Anderson was quickly becoming the one person he wanted to get to know from the inside out.

  * * *

  Switching on the lights as they walked in the front door of his home, Hunter went to pull the keys from his lock when Cary beat him to it. The hint of electricity that flowed from her hand when she passed him the keys made him swallow hard. He could not understand why, but he was nervous. Usually he was the one who was cool and confident when bringing a woman home. Suddenly, he felt as if he were a sixteen-year-old virgin without a clue of what to do with a woman.

  “I’ll get the ice,” she said, moving toward the kitchen.

  Stepping behind the breakfast bar, she went to the built-in refrigerator.

  “There’s a bottle of vodka in there. Bring it with you.” He shut the front door and tossed his keys to the dark wooden table by the entrance.

  “The last thing you need is a drink,” she chided. “What if you have a concussion? Alcohol would be the worst thing in the world for you.”

  He shrugged off his blue jacket, wincing slightly as it went over his sore hand. “I got punched, not knocked out.”

  She removed an ice tray from the freezer. “Don’t have to be knocked out to have a mild concussion, Hunter.”

  He slung his jacket over one of the barstools. “What are you, a nurse?”

  She laughed as she brought the ice tray to the counter. “Believe it or not, that’s what I wanted to be when I was a little girl.”

  “What changed your mind?” He came around the bar to her side.

  “When I got into high school, those dreams were pushed to the wayside by my writing.”

  He raised his dark eyebrows. “So you do write.”

  “I wasn’t very good. What I was good with was helping others to find their voice. Even in high school, editing sort of became my calling.” She twisted the plastic tray and a few cubes of ice fell onto the white granite countertop.

  “Maybe you should consider taking up writing again.”

  She gazed about the kitchen. “Where are the plastic bags?”

  He pointed to a drawer beneath the bar.

  She pulled out the drawer. “I have been so into editing— reading how good everyone else is—that I know enough to not even attempt writing.” She filled a plastic bag with the cubes that were scattered about the countertop.

  “But you have to attempt it first before you can decide that, Cary. And you never know; your voice may come with time. It takes time and experience to be a writer.”

  “You sound like you know something about being a writer.” She placed the bag on his hand.

  He winced slightly as the cold bag hit his skin. “Yeah, a little. When I finished graduate school, I tried to write the great American novel, but with no luck.” He removed the bag from his hand. “I think we all dream of being a writer, but only a few of us are really talented enough to be able to do it.”

  “How far did you get with your novel?”

  He dropped the bag of ice on the countertop. “Over halfway.”

  “What’s the story?”

  He went around the bar and had a seat on a stool. “Good question. I was trying to write about a man coming to terms with life changes and the decisions he had made, but it fell short.”


  “Did you have a title?”

  He briefly nodded. “The Other Side of Me.”

  “Good title.” She slipped around the bar and edged closer, her brown eyes intently focused on him. “Can I read it?”

  He vehemently shook his head. “Hell no.”

  “Oh, come on. I’m a professional editor, able to spot what is good and what isn’t. You wouldn’t have hired me if you didn’t believe in my ability.”

  “That was for erotica, not this.”

  “A good story is a good story, Hunter.” She placed the bag of ice against his left jaw. “It doesn’t matter the genre, it matters how the story is told.”

  He removed the ice and slapped it on the counter. “Well, I’m a pretty shitty storyteller.” He stood from his stool and went to the refrigerator.

  “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” she told him.

  Opening the refrigerator, he removed a bottle of vodka. “Forget it, Cary. My writing days are behind me.”

  Her fingers lazily traced circles over the white granite countertop while her eyes glared disapprovingly at the bottle in his hand. “If that’s the case, then what harm will it do if I read your manuscript?”

  He stood there as her fingers skirted the countertop. The gesture was driving him crazy.

  “Fine.” He unscrewed the cap on the vodka, desperate for a drink. “I’ll let you read it.” He took a swig from the bottle. “But I was really young and stupid when I wrote it. I believed in dreams coming true then. Now, I have a more practical viewpoint.”

  “Dreams come true, Hunter. You just have to allow them to manifest, and not block them at every turn.”

  Coming alongside her, he banged the bottle down on the bar. “Nice philosophy, but not very realistic. And don’t worry about telling me that it’s crap. I’m a big boy, I can handle it.” He turned away and walked into the adjacent living room.

  He went to a wall of white bookshelves stuffed with a selection of paperbacks and hardcover novels. Interspersed throughout the books were occasional knickknacks; models of sailboats and small lighthouses.

  Cary followed behind him, taking in the seaside tokens. “You into boats?”

  He pulled a spiral-bound book from the third shelf from the floor. “My mother collected them. She loved sailboats and lighthouses. Her dream was always to live by the ocean. When she died…I took all of her mementos with me.” Hunter made his way back to her, carrying the book in his hand.

  “When did your mother die?”

  “Ten years ago.” Anxious to change the subject, he shoved the book toward her.

  “You had it bound?” She took the book from him.

  “No, my girlfriend did. She wanted to make sure I kept it preserved, in case I ever returned to it.”

  Cary gleaned the plain white cover with the words The Other Side of Me typed across it. “What happened to her? Your girlfriend?”

  He hurried to the breakfast bar. “You met her tonight. Kathleen Marx and I lived together for almost four years.” He collected the bottle of vodka from the bar.

  “That’s why she was so friendly with you and Chris?”

  Hunter lifted the bottle to his lips. “That’s why.”

  Carrying the book in her hand, Cary moved closer to the bar. “What happened to the two of you?”

  He took a hearty swig of vodka. “What usually happens in relationships? We got bored with each other.”

  Cary dropped the book on the white granite countertop. “Did she get bored or did you get bored first?”

  “I think it was pretty much mutual.” He pointed to the book. “Take it home with you if you like.”

  She pulled out a stool from the bar. “I’ll stay here and read a little.”

  “Suit yourself. I’m going to bed.” He went to the silver-painted metal stairway next to the front door. “Just lock up on your way out,” he said over his shoulder and started up the steps.

  Once on the third floor, he took another long pull from the vodka. The burning of the liquid in his throat helped to ease the throbbing in his jaw. He had barely kicked off his shoes when he flopped down on his bed. Putting the bottle on the floor, he closed his eyes, eager to put the whole troubling evening behind him.

  Chapter 8

  Hunter awoke with a start from a nightmare about being chased by a pack of blue-eyed wolves. Sitting up, his eyes did a turn of his bedroom, and then he fell back on his gold bedspread. Wiping his hands over his face, he let out a long, shaky breath. As he lay there, the events of the previous evening came back to him, and then the throbbing started in his jaw.

  Clasping his jaw, he sat up on the edge of the bed. He was still wearing his light blue, button-down shirt and khaki pants from the night before. Standing from the bed he unbuttoned his shirt, and then the pain in his hand made him bend over. Shaking out his hand, he headed to the bathroom in search of painkillers.

  After digging through his medicine cabinet, Hunter was disappointed to only find a bottle of Maalox and a couple of packages of condoms. Shutting the mirrored door above his vanity, he recalled the bottle of Advil he had stashed in the kitchen after catching the flu last year. Removing his shirt, he tossed it to the floor and then retrieved the bottle of vodka still sitting by his bed. Vodka in hand, he descended the steps to the first floor. From outside, he could barely detect the whine of a police siren. He remembered that the keys he had picked from Chris’s pocket were still sitting by his front door. Hunter smiled as he stepped on the first floor landing, wondering what his idiot brother ended up doing once he had recovered from his drunken stupor.

  “Stupid bastard deserved it.”

  He crossed the entryway beyond the front door to the kitchen and turned on the chrome lights above the bar. Spying the clock on the microwave, he could not believe that he had been out for over five hours. Most people in the world were dead asleep at three in the morning, but not him.

  Rummaging through the spice rack next to the stove—where he thought he had put the Advil—he was wondering if he would ever get back to sleep, when out of the corner of his eye he saw something moving in his living room. He careened his head around and caught sight of a small form curled up on his green sofa. Stepping around the breakfast bar, he headed toward the darkened living room. As he drew closer, he could just make out a black cocktail dress draped over the back of the sofa and a pair of black high heels on the floor beside the glass coffee table. Brown tufts of hair were peeking out from beneath a light blanket decorated with sailboats that he always kept on the sofa. When he stood next to the sofa, the figure began to stir.

  “What time is it?” Cary asked.

  “A little after three. Why are you still here?”

  She shoved the blanket aside, and then he saw her black lace bra standing out against her creamy white skin. A flash of heat tore through him.

  “I got so caught up in reading your book that by the time I finished it, I was too tired to wait for a cab. So, I decided to crash here.” Wrapping the blanket around her body, she sat up on the sofa.

  “You finished it?”

  She patted the cushion next to her. “We should talk about your book.”

  “Now? Perhaps I should take you home.”

  “You don’t want to talk about your book?”

  He scratched his head. “No, not particularly.”

  She pulled the blanket closer around her shoulders. “I don’t know why you feel that way. It was good, Hunter, really good.”

  “Thanks, but I think….” Running his hand over the back of his neck, he sat down next to her. “Well, it doesn’t matter.”

  “Have you ever let anyone read your manuscript? I mean a professional, someone in the business?”

  “Other than me….” He let out a sigh. “No.”

  “I can’t understand why you stopped. You have a wonderful way with words, with transporting the reader inside the pages. I was really disappointed when it just abruptly ended. Also, I was a little sad. I wanted t
o know how it ended. Did the character, Stone, ever find happiness? He felt so lost.” She pensively shook her head. “You should be discovering your voice as a writer and not helping others find theirs as a publisher. Your inner demons have to come out on the page, Hunter, otherwise you’ll never feel satisfied.”

  He became acutely aware of the black bra strap angled against her white shoulder. “It seems my inner demons aren’t meant for the page. I was never able to come up with an ending. I got…distracted.”

  “That’s not the impression I got. It almost felt like you lost your inspiration near the end.”

  “Maybe I did.” He flopped back against the sofa. “I stopped writing right after my mother died.”

  She leaned back against the sofa next to him. “How did she die?”

  “Car accident.” He rubbed his hand over a long white scar on his left, upper chest. “She drove off the road and into a ravine. My father lost it, and Chris had to take over all the duties at Donavan Books. But he couldn’t handle it.”

  “Is that why you two don’t get along? Because of what happened to your mother?”

  He arched back his shoulders as he rested his head against the sofa. “No, Chris and I have never gotten along, but things got worse between us after I got strong-armed into taking over the publishing house.”

  “Strong-armed?” She sat up. “What do you mean?”

  “My father had been footing the bill for me to discover myself as a writer. That was while Kathleen and I had been living together. My father cut me off and told me to take over the publishing house. I didn’t have a choice; I needed the money, and a master’s degree in English wasn’t exactly going to get me a job.”

  “We’ve all got to work, Hunter. Before my editing business started taking off, I worked a ton of odd jobs. Even waited tables in this nightclub…well, it wasn’t really a nightclub, not the kind where the girls on stage kept their clothes on, if you know what I mean.”

  Hunter looked at her anew. “You worked in a strip club?”

  The blanket fell away from her shoulders, revealing the lacy edge of her bra. “Only as a waitress. I had a pair of really short shorts and a tank top, but I kept my clothes on.”