by Jane Henry
“Beatrice Ann,” Zack groans, pulling out the middle name. God. I’m in worse trouble than I thought.
“Zack—”
“Uh uh. Listen to me.” He pulls us to sitting on the stone bench, and a flood of memories blankets me. I remember sitting here the night Carter left, and we got a call from the police department that he’d been arrested. I remember my dad pacing that deck above, and my mother screaming at him from the doorway, telling him what an idiot he was for ever taking in a foster son to begin with. I remember sitting here the first day I started my period, on the cusp of womanhood. I couldn’t talk to my mother about it, but I’d called Chantilly. She was younger than I was, but not so young she didn’t understand what a big deal that was. She’d called Aunt Veronica, and we’d gone out for hot cocoa. She bought me a little pair of heart-shaped golden earrings I still kept in my jewelry box. And I remembered how she’d told me how proud she was seeing me grow to be a woman.
My mother never knew. She just must’ve magically assumed I’d grown up or something.
I sat on this bench doing Algebra homework. I’d had a tutor in high school for a while, since we were traveling to Paris for a time. I’d work out these problems, right here on this bench. It was my quiet spot. My mom hated coming down here because she said the soft soil around the bench soiled her shoes. I’d kick off my shoes and walk barefoot, reading reams of poetry written by Byron and Dickinson and Frost. I always fancied myself some sort of fairy down in the garden, a fairy whose wings hadn’t yet grown.
Now here I am with Zack, my NYC Zack, who doesn’t own a yacht or buy me diamonds but offers me something so much richer than anything I’ve ever owned.
And my Zack is angry.
“How could you say that, Beatrice?”
“I just blurted it out,” I whisper, keeping my voice low. He speaks hardly above a whisper himself, not wanting to call attention to us. “I didn’t mean it. I don’t want you to think I expect—”
“It isn’t about that, doll,” he says dolefully, sitting down on the bench and pulling me to sit on his knee. Damnit, the gesture is so sweet, his pet name for me making me want to cry. I don’t know how to respond, and I know there are people on the deck looking down at us, but I don’t care. I want to sit with him like this. His arms go around my waist.
“You didn’t tell me about any of this,” he says, waving a hand around the back yard. “I mean, honey, your dad told me he owns a private island.”
“My dad, does,” I say. “And he’s only part owner.”
His lip quirks up and I can see the stern expression he’s wearing is threatening to break. He pushes his lips together and finally, bursts out laughing, his shoulders shaking from it. “Part owner of a private island. So glad you clarified that, babe. I feel so much better.”
And suddenly I’m laughing and crying all at once. My head drops to his shoulder and he puts his arms around me. “I don’t want to be here,” I whisper. “It’s great seeing Chantilly and dad, and everything, but this isn’t who I am anymore, and it’s painful to remember I ever was.”
He hooks a finger under my chin. “Not gonna be the only thing that’s painful, sweetie.”
I pout a little and whisper in his ear. “Am I in trouble for all this?”
His grip tightens. “What do you think?”
I nod and snuggle deeper on his chest. I need this. I know I do. The accountability and rules and structure and discipline.
“I think I have never needed a good, hard session, more in my entire life,” I say.
“I agree,” he says grimly. “I’ll take care of you, Beatrice. And you know what? We’re not gonna clarify that we’re not engaged.”
I lift my head off his shoulder and stare at him. Is he saying what I’m thinking he is? But his eyes soften, and he shakes his head. “I’m not proposing. You know me better than that. I don’t want to do it under duress. You know that, right?”
I nod, and my heartbeat quickens. “But while we’re here, I guess it wouldn’t hurt for them to think we’re that committed to each other, especially if it gets Judson off your ass.”
“Okay,” I whisper. “Thank you.”
“Alright, honey. Let’s get this over with. And tonight, we’ll talk.”
I hop off his knee and take his hand, and high up on the deck, someone clangs crystal to get the attention of those around us. “A toast for the happy couple!” They say, and for a split second I wonder if they’re talking about us. But no. God, for a minute I completely forgot this was Chantilly’s gig. They’re the ones getting married tomorrow, not me, thank God.
I join everyone up on the deck and reach for my phone to take a picture of the happy couple, when a slew of notifications comes in all at once. What the hell? Frowning, I swipe at the phone. Notifications from Facebook, and emails, and a string of messages from Diana.
OMG. You got engaged? Baby. You DIDN’T TELL ME!
Ice skitters down my spine, a shiver of nerves. How did she know already?
I type quickly in response. How did you know?
I saw it on FB! Someone tagged you!
Dear God. I quickly look, and she’s right and holy shit there’s a picture of me sitting on Zack’s knee on the bench, his head thrown back in laughter. That was like one minute ago!
It was… not true. It’s a ruse. I said it to get an ex-boyfriend off my back!
She doesn’t respond right away.
Um. Zack was okay with that?
I groan. Um, no. What do you think?
Sigh. Sorry, babe. Well, try to enjoy your visit as much as you can, and we’ll sort this shit out later.
I love that she says we’ll sort it out. This isn’t even her problem to sort out, and yet she’s helping me sort it out and hell, will it ever need sorting.
Thank you. <3
I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and face my family.
“Clothes off,” he whispers. It’s late night, hours past the time my parents and all the other guests have gone to sleep. I left my door unlocked and waited for Zack, and he finally came. He’s wearing boxers and a t-shirt, standing with his hands on his hips, the door locked behind him now. No one will bother us. But with a house full of people, I have to be quiet.
I stand in front of my bed and take off my shorts and tank, whipping them behind me. He twirls a finger to the bed. “Present.”
I shake a little, wondering if he’ll spank me. I crave climbing over his lap and having him sort me out, but anything too loud and I’ll die of embarrassment. I fall to the bed, chest down, ass up, and lay my arms out in front to present myself to him.
“I’m going to punish you, Beatrice,” he whispers in my ear, his breath making my fine blonde hair skitter across my neck. “What I want to do is take you across my lap and give you a naughty girl spanking.” My breasts swell and my stomach clenches. Yess. God, I want that so badly. “But it’s better I wait until I get you home.”
If he isn’t going to spank me, what’s he going to do, then? From the corner of my eye I see something dark in his hand, but I can’t figure out what it is.
“Keep your head down,” he orders. I listen, focusing on the sound of my breathing and my heartbeat. A soft, silky fabric moves across my cheek, then in my mouth, before he ties a knot behind my head as he gags me. He’s used ball gags before, but this is softer. “You can’t make noise, baby.” Next comes the matching silk blindfold, and a scratching sound of metal. My belly quivers. Cuffs? But no. The next second, I feel cold metal on my chest and I gasp against the gag at the first feel of a nipple clamp. God! He’s clamping me in my parents’ house? He was smart to use the gag first or I’d have had something to say about this. But when the second clamp is in place, painful yet wildly erotic, I lose my ability to fight it. This hurts so fucking good. So. Good.
His palm cracks against my naked ass, one loud smack that anyone outside this room could hear, but after the deafening sound, I hear nothing outside my room. He pinches my ass now, the
n squeezes me, and it almost hurts as badly as a spanking. I moan against the gag, but the sound is so muffled, nothing escapes. “Need a good session with leather,” he whispers. “But you’ll have to take a rain check.” He slips three fingers between my legs and chuckles. “That’s my dirty girl. My little pain slut who gets turned on when I tell her I’ll whip her ass.”
I close my eyes, imagining he’s standing behind me with his strap. It’s wicked but hurts so good.
“Tomorrow at the wedding, you’ll be on your best behavior,” he says, pushing his fingers in me. My breath hitches and I hold onto the bedspread. “You’ll drink no more than I allow and listen when I talk to you. You’ll tell my anything I need to know, and if your mom gives you shit, you come to me.” He’s pumping into me and I can hardly listen to him. I want to tell him to stop talking about my mom when he’s fingering me, but the damn gag prevents that from happening. So I just nod.
“Taking things to the next level, baby,” he says. “You know that?” Do I? I don’t respond. “I mean, after all, we’re engaged now.” He chuckles, his shoulders shaking, and he plunges his fingers so hard in me I buck on the bed. “Gonna fuck that pussy,” he says, his voice a low growl. “Gonna make you come. And you’ll take it without making a sound.”
And that’s exactly what he does, pushes down his boxers, holds me from behind, and plunges in deep. I can think of nothing else. My whole body is consumed with him, my mind filled with nothing but Zack. He works me over, hard and fast, and my need to come mounts. He shoves into me, and with two thrusts, I shatter. I moan against the gag, writhe under him as he comes hard and fast, yanking my head back with a tug on my hair that’s nearly vicious as he spills inside me. He holds me against his chest, arms around me firm and secure. Too soon, he pulls out and with a quick flick of his fingers, unfastens the gag knotted behind my head.
“You get some rest, baby.”
I turn over on my side. “I want you in my bed,” I whisper.
He leans down and brushes my damp hair off my forehead. “Let’s not push it, babe. Your mother already hates me, and your father might lose his mind.”
“He can deal,” I whine, but Zack shakes his head. “Get some sleep and I’ll see you in the morning. Good night. Fiancée.” He grins and takes his leave, quickly exiting my room and going to his guest room. I stare at the back of the door and sigh. I don’t like this at all. I don’t want to be separated from him like this. And though he’s laughing at the whole “fiancée” thing, something inside me lets lose a pang that makes me want to cry. I’ll never be his fiancée for real. I don’t want to get married. It just… isn’t my thing.
This lie of mine will need to be remedied at some point, which will likely have to facilitate a fake break up or something. God. I’m such an idiot. My phone is buzzing and beeping, and I can’t even deal. I silence it, roll over, then drift off into a dreamless sleep.
Chapter 8
Beatrice is off getting ready with the girls, and I’m sitting in the living room, or whatever the hell this room is. I’m not sure they have a living room in this place. That’d be too middle class. There’s a study and an office, and a room with a huge grand piano, multiple bathrooms on every floor, and swirling, elaborate staircases that lead upward to other floors, which I haven’t even visited. Mirrors hang on the walls, and crystal chandeliers in places. I even heard someone mention a pool downstairs. Inside the house. I’ve never been in a private residence like this before, and I’m a little stunned.
“Drink, Zack?” Beatrice’s father has a tumbler with amber liquid and ice in a glass, which he sips from before he gestures to a doorway. “Come with me while we wait for the girls.” I follow him, and he leads me past the ornate, carved book shelves and fireplaces to a small door in the corner of the room. “I’m taking you to what the girls call my man cave,” he says with a husky chuckle. “Muriel won’t grace my room with her presence, so it’s sort of my escape. You know. From when I need to get away from her. We all need one of those, eh?”
We don’t all, but I could see why he would. He elbows me and gestures for me to go downstairs. Fortunately, he isn’t waiting for a response, because I’m not sure what I’d say to him. Yeah, I’ve got friends I get together with and we do manly stuff, I guess. We shoot pool and drink beer and watch football games. But I’ve never wished I had a place to escape to as far as Beatrice is concerned.
I hear the sound of murmured voices as he takes me downstairs. “Beatrice used to love to hide out down here,” he says in the darkened stairwell. His voice is strangely thick with emotion. “She said she liked a place that was away from her mother, too.” He pauses as we near the end of our trek downstairs. “Muriel means well but can be a little overbearing.”
A little?
We’ve arrived. No less than half a dozen guys in suits sit at the bar, and I recognize the man pouring drinks behind the counter as Chantilly’s father. Seems everyone’s making themselves at home. I walk toward the bar when I recognize Judson, but I’ve learned to mask emotions, to not show when things take me off guard. I don’t like this asshole at all.
“Hey,” he greets. “Sounds like we’ll be celebrating another family wedding soon, eh? What’s your drink?”
I gulp. Jesus this is gonna be hard to untangle. “Just a beer,” I say with a smile. “Thanks.” I won’t answer the question about the engagement.
The other men lift glasses and we toast, then I take a good pull on my drink. Jesus, this is good stuff.
“When are your plans?” Judson asks, sitting on a stool beside me.
“We haven’t set a date yet,” I say, which is completely the truth. Hard to set a date when you’re actually not even engaged. Judson’s eyes are on me, narrowed, and he plays it cool.
“Yeah, let’s toast the happy couple,” he says. There’s something sinister at play here, but I have no idea what.
But before we can say anything else, a door opens, and I catch a glimpse of the cars in the garage, before I realize it’s Beatrice who’s racing in. Her beautiful blonde hair is tucked up in this intricate woven pattern, little curls framing her face, tiny white roses studded throughout her hair. Her cheek are flushed, her eyes bright. She’s wearing a dusky pink, fitted sheath dress that enhances her blonde hair and pink cheeks, and I want to pick her up and sit her on my knee, then wrap my arms around her so no one else looks at her.
She comes straight to me.
“Hi, guys,” she says to the room around us. “I just need to talk to Zack for a minute. Everyone good?”
Murmurs and nods go up around us, and then she comes to me. “I can’t find my purse,” she whispers in my ear. “I swear to God I had it in my room and now it’s gone.”
I sigh. Not a week goes by where she’s not losing something—her keys, her phone, her bag. I’m used to it. I give her a nod with the patience I’ve learned from dealing with this so many times. “And the last place you remember having it?”
“My room. I know it,” she says. “I put my makeup on and checked my cell,” she says, drawing closer to me and whispering in my ear. “This engagement thing has gone viral. Someone made a YouTube video of us, with pictures of us here, and music, and a whole bunch of people commented congratulations. Zack, we have a Facebook page.”
What?
I stifle a groan. Ok, so maybe this has gotten out of hand. “I’d show you,” she mutters. “But my bag is gone.”
“Ok, it isn’t gone. We’ll find it.”
“But Zack!” She whispers. “The girls are getting into the limo now.”
“All good, babe. I’ll stay here and find it and meet you at the wedding.”
She looks up at me. “Really?”
“Of course. It’s an important thing you need. I don’t mind.”
“I’ll help you look.” We both look over, and Judson is standing nearby, watching us. His lips are tight, his eyes curious, but he seems friendly enough.
“Let him, son. Not much time,” her father sa
ys.
Yeah, I totally don’t want to do that but it’s likely the smart thing to do and I like her father.
“Ok, thanks.”
He nods. “I’ll help you.” Well, if this isn’t a chain of events. But I’m foolish to say no.
“Yeah, man, thanks.”
Everyone else finishes their drinks and heads out. Beatrice leans in, gives me a kiss on my cheek, and I want to do more than kiss her cheek. She smells like lilies and lemons, clean and fresh and intoxicating. “You behave yourself while you wait for me,” I whisper in her ear. “And we’re gonna have a talk later about you taking care of your things.” I’m not really upset with her, but know she needs a reminder of who’s in charge before she goes. It keeps her steady and calm. She casts her gaze down and whispers in my ear. “Yes, sir. Thank you.” She needed to say it. I give her an appreciative kiss on her cheek. “Ok so it’s a small, quilted silver clutch,” she says, and she leaves.
What the fuck is quilted silver? I can go by silver though.
Her father and uncle and everyone else follow, but Judson still sits on the stool, and now he’s staring at me.
“You got time for another drink?” Judson asks.
I shake my head. “Not really. Gotta find her bag and get to the wedding. Let me see if I can find it upstairs, and then we’ll head out?”
I hope I can find it. “Yeah,” he says, eyes narrowed on me. I’ve finely honed my skills, so I know when someone’s lying, and this guy’s extended friendship is so thin it’s nearly transparent.
“You joining me?” I ask. He shrugs, pushes his glass on the counter, and follows me.
“She always was sorta flighty,” he says.
I feel myself bristle. I’ll give him flighty, right to his high-and-mighty jaw. “She isn’t flighty,” I snap. “She sometimes forgets things because she’s got a million things on her mind.” My voice is sharper than I intend.
