CLAIMED BY THE ALPHA UNDERBOSS

by Candace Ayers

  Brett raised his hands in a placating gesture. "It's not for you," he said quickly. "It's for me." I narrowed my eyes and looked back at the bed where the chains and cuffs lay. He hired me as a dominatrix?

  "You mean, you want me to tie you up and... and what? Pleasure you?"

  A hint of a smile played across his face. "It's funny that you can sound so offended by the word pleasure." I blushed and turned my head. "But no, it's not for that, either."

  "Then what is it for?"

  His eyes had a storm raging in them. I could have sworn he was in physical pain. "I need you to secure me in this room, in these bindings by ten o' clock every night, and do not return for me until six the next morning."

  I laughed, thinking it must be a joke. "What are you? A vampire?" Brett didn't smile. "You really want me to leave you chained up in here until the morning?"

  "I do."

  I was beginning to realize something. Brett was either incredibly eccentric, or incredibly nuts.

  "Do you understand?"

  "Oh yeah, sure, I understand. What’s not to understand?” I mocked, “You want me to chain you to the wall and leave you there till six. Nothing strange about that. And for this you're going to pay thousands of dollars in dresses and..."

  Brett was watching me with the most pained and agonized expression on his face. I suddenly felt like a complete jerk. I knew how it felt to be ridiculed.

  "I'm sorry," I said quietly. "Sure, I'll do it, if it's really what you want."

  He let out a relieved breath. "It is," he replied quietly. As he walked to the bed, his expression never faltered. He appeared stoic, but with each step, I was reminded of a man marching towards his death sentence. His body seemed weighted with strain. For the first time since meeting him, I realized that he must be an incredibly lonely man.

  He positioned himself on the mattress and held his hands out for me. I laid a caressing hand on his wrist. He looked up at me, a split second of surprise registered before he attempted a smile, then closed his eyes, waiting for me to cuff him.

  "You don't want to change or anything first? Er, pajamas or something?" He shook his head. "Okay, then." I placed the cuffs over his wrists and locked them. They were huge, five times too big. Even his large hands could easily slide out of the metal restraints. Whatever. I locked the massive padlock that hung off them and stepped back.

  "How will I know if you need anything?" I didn't see a phone anywhere, or even one of the house buttons.

  "I won't."

  “What if you need a glass of water?”

  “I won’t.”

  "What if you need to pee?"

  He finally managed a smile. It was soft and barely there, but it was genuine. "Thank you for your kindness. I'll be fine." I hesitated, then walked to the door.

  "Remember," he called out. "Not until six. Not for any reason." I nodded and left the room.

  Chapter 7

  I couldn't sleep. I kept opening my door and peeking down the hall at Brett's room. He'd forbade me to come in until six, but I couldn't help wondering if he was really alright in there. I kept picturing the sorrow in his tired, weary eyes as I closed the cuffs on his wrists. What if there was a fire? Or if he got sick? Or if he was suffering a heart attack at this very minute?

  The last thought was what did me in. I couldn't handle the image of him lying chained to his bed while his heart slowly gave out and the life faded from his body, all because I didn't check on him. Just a quick peek inside—that's all. Just so I'll know he's safe.

  I tiptoed down the hall, hovering outside his door. My hand went straight to the keypad then pulled back. As concerned as I was, I didn't want to piss him off. He’d given explicit instructions, and I’d promised to follow them. I opened the wooden door that was more for show than anything else and pressed my ear to the steel one behind it. It was cold and hard and I couldn't hear a thing. I listened harder, straining my ears. Still nothing.

  "Get away!" A voice, harsh and loud and very close, shouted from behind me. I jumped and almost screamed. Jeremy stood in the hallway, glaring at me.

  "What are you doing?" he asked.

  "Nothing," I said, terrified. “What the hell are you doing, sneaking up on people? Creep, much?” Was it really that wrong to want to check on Brett and make sure he wasn't dead? "I only wanted to make sure he was alright. Do you know what he's doing in there? That he's chained up to—" I paused, wondering exactly how much Jeremy actually knew. "Do you know..."

  "About his condition?"

  I screwed my face up. "Condition?"

  Jeremy looked taken aback for a minute, like he'd let something slip that he shouldn't have. "I know about everything that goes on in this house," he snapped. "You are not to return to his room until six. It is only now just past midnight. I advise you to go to sleep. For your own good."

  I took one last look at the steel door before stepping away and heading back to my room. Jeremy followed me until I was inside, where I shut and locked the door. Something was definitely off about Jeremy. Did he know that Brett was losing his mind? Maybe he was playing into Brett’s delusions, whatever they were. I bet he's after Brett’s money. Suddenly things made perfect sense. Brett was rich, but mentally ill. He had no friends or family that I'd seen, only Jeremy, who was no doubt manipulating him, and I was hired to be a pawn in his evil scheme. Well, I wouldn’t do it. I would find a way to break his plan wide open.

  I laid my head down on the pillow and realized how soft my bed was. It was a far cry from Colin's couch. Funny how I'd so quickly gotten used to thinking of my old apartment and the things in it as Colin's. We had lived there together for six months, and up until the last month had split the cost of everything, yet it was Colin's apartment, Colin's couch, Colin's everything. Had I ever had anything that was really mine?

  Before I knew it, I was asleep. I had bad dreams of floating on storm clouds while monsters chased after me. I opened my eyes around two a.m. and starting thinking about Brett again. I got out of bed and took one quiet step towards his room but didn't dare go inside, not if Jeremy was going to be hovering so close by. I could have sworn he’d told me that Brett and I were the only ones sleeping here at night.

  Instead, I decided to explore a little. If this was to be my new home, I should know where things were. Maybe there was something I could use to free Brett from the strange hold Jeremy had over him. I wandered up and down the halls, opening doors that weren't locked and poking my head into places where I wasn't sure I should be, but went anyway.

  One room looked like a movie theater. It had the same style of chairs that you'd find in a theater, only richer and plusher. Some of them were actually more like theater love seats than chairs. There was even a concession stand. It was a cute room. Back by the projection booth, I noticed a trophy case. Curious about what sort of trophies I'd find in a media room, I went for a closer look. The shelves were lined with Oscars, Golden Globes, and SAG Awards. My mouth dropped open as I read each inscription. Brett Randolph Elliot...producer.

  Suddenly, everything slid into place. I couldn't believe what a giant idiot I'd been. I'd read about Brett Randolph Elliot a hundred times. A thousand times! His name was mentioned in papers and online trade content across the country, probably across the globe. He was known for producing blockbuster after blockbuster. He was also known for being a complete recluse. His private life was one big enigma that no amount of overly-ambitious paparazzi had ever been able to crack.

  I'm working for the biggest producer in Hollywood!

  Holy cow. If Colin knew where I was, he'd piss himself. I was tempted to text him just to mess with him a little.

  Having this new information, I felt better, safer somehow. It gave me some context for what was going on here. I still didn't trust Jeremy, but at least now I knew who I was really working for. I went back to my room, intending to force myself into a restful sleep, but found my mind drifting again and again to the image of Mr. Brett Randolph Elliot, award winning and esteemed
producer, chained to his bed.

  By the time six o'clock arrived, I was showered, dressed, and waiting anxiously to see whether my new employer was alive or dead. When my alarm finally dinged, I ran from the room and down the hall. There were no sounds from inside Mr. Elliot's room. The door unlocked and I ran inside to find his body hanging limply, his clothes torn so badly to shreds that he was completely naked. His face and chest were covered in scratches that looked like claw marks.

  "Mr. El- Brett! Oh my god! Are you alright?" I ran to his side.

  He turned his head to me as I unlocked the cuffs, throwing them aside. I was too worried about him to be embarrassed by his nudity. I ran my hand over his head, along his back and chest, searching for wounds. Despite the blood, he seemed fine. The scratches that looked like claw marks seemed to fade as I ran my hand over them, like dry erase marker.

  "I don't understand," I said, looking to him for answers. "What happened to you? Did someone hurt—"

  But he wrapped his arms around me and pulled me to him before I could finish, molding his lips to mine. His mouth was wet and hot and as his tongue deftly and demandingly worked its way inside my mouth, I half-heartedly rested my hands against his rock-hard chest, trying to stop him. But his large, well-muscled body enveloped me and a burning heat crept up my body, settling into the apex between my thighs in a slow fire that made my whole body ache. I straddled him, pressing myself against him, his splayed fingers reaching through my hair, grasping the back of my head. I heard a soft moan escape my lips.

  "Kaitlyn," he murmured. I bit his ear and wrapped my legs around his waist, my heart throbbing.

  Suddenly, it all stopped. He pushed me away so fast I fell off the bed and bumped my head. "Ow," I said.

  "I'm sorry," he said, wrapping a sheet around his body and jumping off the bed. "Did I hurt you? Are you alright?" I yanked my arm away, irritated at the sudden withdraw of affection. One minute I had his massive, erect cock rubbing against my jeans in just the right places, daring me to jump into the deep end, the next he was pushing me away like I had an infectious disease.

  "I'm fine," I snapped.

  "Kaitlyn I—I'm sorry." His eyes were so sincere. "I just didn't know what else to do." He wrapped his hands around his head and held it like he had a migraine. His eyes winced and turned glassy. "It's getting harder for me to control," he whimpered.

  "What is?" I asked, my anger melting. He was obviously in pain; I just didn't know why.

  I reached out a hand and he swatted it away, straightening his back. Maybe he really is crazy. "It won't happen again," he said, rounding back his shoulders and looking me straight in the eyes. They weren't the blue green I'd been mesmerized by when first meeting him, they were a deep brown with flecks of gold. Impossible. Eyes don't randomly change color like that. "You have my word. I won't touch you like that again."

  I nodded my head, as if that was what I wanted to hear. Then left him alone to get dressed before he could see the disappointment on my face and the deep confusion in my eyes.

  Chapter 8

  It's amazing how fast something can become routine. What's even more amazing is how much crap a person will put up with when they're attracted to someone. Every time I tried to leave the house, Jeremy was there, reminding me that a portion of my contract involved my being available to Mr. Elliot twenty-four seven. That meant not going anywhere that wasn't within a 100 foot radius of the house. Auditions disappeared. I didn't have any friends in L.A. to begin with, or they'd have disappeared too. I felt like a prisoner. At least when I was auditioning, I had physical contact with people. Now, half the time Brett ignored me, the rest of the time... well the rest of the time it was like the two of us were sole survivors of some terrible catastrophe. The last two people alive on Earth, clinging to each other as a life rafts.

  It was those times that kept me here. Being with Brett could be incredibly easy. We strolled through the grounds, ate dinner on the terrace, laughed at silly things, and my body still ached for him. I told myself there wasn’t a red-blooded woman alive who wouldn’t drool over his witty charm and drop-dead gorgeous looks. He felt something for me, too. I was certain. There were times when I’d look up to catch him staring at me for a moment before he quickly turned away. In those moments, when I’d catch him unsuspectingly, his face had such a pained longing, it took my breath away.

  I only wished I knew how to create more of the good times and get rid of the sullen, morose, moody Brett forever. Was this what it felt like to love someone with a mental illness? Jeremy was constantly around, though his presence was often hidden. I would think that Brett and I were alone only to walk out of a room and discover Jeremy standing against a wall, listening.

  This morning I was in the kitchen, contemplating the strange relationship that had developed between my employer and me, when he stumbled in, bleary eyed, searching for coffee.

  "Coffee," Brett demanded. I could already tell this was going to be one of the bad days.

  "Yeah, alright. Coming up," I mumbled, irritated that he hadn't even said good morning. Though it wasn't expressly written, part of my duties seemed to include bringing him crap that he could easily get himself. It was a wonder that I didn't brush his teeth and wipe his ass for him.

  Luckily, the coffee pot was still hot. I pulled it from the coffeemaker and tripped over my own feet. Half of the coffee flew across the room and hit Brett square in the chest and I felt the other half of the coffee slosh out and burn my arm. The glass pot shattered on the floor, a million shards of glass instantly dug into my skin and stung me like a hive of bees.

  "Shit!" I yelled.

  Brett rushed to me. He stepped on the glass with his bare feet like he was walking on soap bubbles. "Kaitlyn! Are you alright?" He scooped me off the floor and pulled me into his arms. They were thick, and his muscles rippled as he held me protectively against him.

  "Brett, your chest. Aren't you burned?" His face flushed as I struggled in his arms, certain he was hurt much worse than me.

  "I'm fine," he said, holding me tighter as he carried me across the room and sat me on a couch.

  "But I saw the coffee burn you."

  "I'm fine," he repeated. “Let me see your arm." He pulled my hand, straightening my arm out. It had a giant red patch where the coffee had burned me. Bits of glass stuck out of my skin at all angles. Apparently, my left arm had taken the brunt of the injuries. I was glad I wasn't left handed. His eyes moved swiftly over the rest of me, searching my body for anything else that might be injured and leaving me with a tingling desire in my lady bits.

  "Stay here," he said, leaving me in the living room. He returned a minute later with a first aid kit and some tweezers. "I need to get the glass out before we can treat the burn."

  His eyes were the normal blue I loved. I watched them swim with concern. "I'm okay," I said, "really."

  He raised an eyebrow, unconvinced, and pulled a piece of glass from my arm the size of a dime. My face went white. I'd never been very fond of blood—especially my own. "Okay," I told him. "Maybe not exactly fine. Go ahead. Patch me up."

  I closed my eyes but winced every time Brett pulled a piece of glass from my skin. The third time I jumped and Brett held my hand, massaging my palm with his fingers before continuing. "Tell me again," he said, pulling out a tiny piece of glass that had embedded itself into my elbow. "What was it you said you did before coming here." I had a feeling Brett was trying to distract me. I decided to let him.

  "Ow," I winced. "I'm an actress. Well... was… sort of."

  His eyes lifted to mine. We were so close I could smell his sweat. It was like cedar and eucalyptus. I inhaled deeply as he continued. "Sort of?" he asked.

  "Well, my boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—Colin, has had a lot better luck at it than I have."

  "Oh? And how much luck have you had?" he asked, dropping another piece of glass onto the table.

  "None," I tried to smile but my lips turned down instead of up.

  Brett's hand reached o
ut, caressing the back of my leg. His eyes were soft and seemed to reach to the very core of me. "It takes time," he said. "What about Colin? Where is he now?"

  "In our old apartment, probably banging some skank he picked up at a bar. That was his favorite pastime while we were together, no reason it would’ve stopped now that we're apart."

  Brett's eyes darkened. "He cheated on you?"

  I laughed. "Constantly. Then again..." I paused. "Can it really be called cheating if I knew and didn’t stop it?" I blushed, embarrassed.

  Brett's eyes started to twitch. "You knew he was cheating on you yet you said nothing?" I nodded, feeling my throat dry up. "So, you prefer men with a callous disregard for your wellbeing who would treat you with no respect rather than those who would love you unconditionally?" he asked, finally setting the tweezers down. His eyes burned with an angry fire. I felt my defenses kick in.

  "No, I just... I don't have a lot of friends."

  "There's a reason for that."

  I yanked my arm out of his grip. "What is that supposed to mean?” Brett's muscles flexed and he looked at me with eyes that were hard and dark.

  “Go on, Brett, answer. What is the reason I have no friends? I’m fat, ugly, stupid? Lay it on me, I can take it. Trust me, I’ve heard worse than anything you can dish up.” I knew my temper was flying off the handle a little bit, but I was livid.

  "Because you have no self-confidence,” he spat the words at me. “You put yourself down too much.” He didn’t meet my eyes when he muttered, “Why are you women always putting yourselves down?"

  I knew Brett was in a bad mood when he’d walked into the kitchen this morning, but after being burned and having shards of glass removed from my arm, I wasn’t exactly Little Mary Sunshine either. Something about the way he said “you women” or maybe it was the words he chose that spiked my bitch-o-meter.

  "I don't know," I snapped back, "Maybe it’s the same reason men like you are always keeping secrets from us."