The Effing List
Page 1
About the Effing List
I love that I can dive into a Masters of The Shadowlands book and get lost and come out feeling warm, safe, and floaty. Just like being in “sub space” ~ Marie’s Tempting Reads
Let’s liven up our marriage. It’ll be fun. Then her husband brought two slaves into the house. That was the end of that.
* * *
Divorce achieved, Valerie is working on her goals. Friends: has a new one. Fitness: little muscles! Finances: in the black.
* * *
Friskiness? Total. Effing. Fail. So she attends the notorious Shadowlands club’s open house. There, a sadistic Dom—a fellow professor--teaches her that she loves pain with her pleasure. He wants to show her more.
* * *
Despite the razor edges of his hard face and the authority in his every word, he’s careful and caring. He listens, and how tempting is that?
* * *
But she knows better. Her heart is off limits.
* * *
Retired Special Forces colonel, Ghost has been a widower for long enough. Although he’s ready to love again, the generous, caring woman he desires has scars from her past. However, he has hard-won skills, enough to show Valerie there can be a new F on her list—fulfillment. Life looks good.
* * *
Until his past surfaces, shattering his new life and the love he’d hoped to win.
The Effing List
Masters of the Shadowlands: 15
Cherise Sinclair
VanScoy Publishing Group
The Effing List
Copyright © 2021 by Cherise Sinclair
ISBN 978-1-947219-34-2
Published by VanScoy Publishing Group
Cover Artist: April Martinez
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, business establishments, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this eBook only. No part of this eBook may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without prior written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Warning: This book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. This book is for sale to adults only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase.
Disclaimer: Please do not try any new sexual practice, without the guidance of an experienced practitioner. Neither the publisher nor the author will be responsible for any loss, harm, injury, or death resulting from use of the information contained in this book.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please purchase your own copy.
Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Contents
Acknowledgments
Timeline
Author’s Note
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Have you tried…
Not a Hero
Also by Cherise Sinclair
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Where do I even start? So many people help to create a story, and I’m so grateful to all of you.
But, you know, it all starts with you—my readers. You’re why I’m still plunking my butt down in front of the keyboard. You’ve offered your ideas and opinions, cheered me on, requested stories for characters I’d never have tried to give a voice to—like Mistress Anne and Master Sam. To all of you, you’re amazing and inspiring. Thank you.
So many hugs go to Leagh at Romance Novel Promotions for running the Facebook Shadowkittens group. Herding kittens isn’t for the faint of heart.
To my Shadowkittens on Facebook. I adore y’all so much. I love how discussions range from books to real life, how y’all share…ahem…inspirational pictures and laugh-out-loud memes, how generous you are with advice and encouragement to other kittens. Blessings on Lisa SK for her generosity and tact as Mama Cat.
As always, my besties and crit partners had my back—even when one of them was only a week from a big surgery. Fiona Archer and Monette Michaels, thank you! And a huge hug to Bianca Sommerland doing the content editing for this book.
Although, I swear, y’all, I almost pulled my hair out when all of you wanted more sex scenes. ARGH!
Beta readers—Barb Jack, Lisa White, Marian Shulman, and JJ Foster—I treasure you so much. Thank you so much for your time and help in pointing out where something isn’t clear and in finding errors in grammar or phrasing that have slipped right past me.
Red Quill’s editing team—Ekatarina Sayanova, Rebecca Cartee, and Tracy Damron-Roelle—is simply fantastic, not only catching grammar and punctuation errors, but finding oopsies like characters who miraculously switch clothing in the middle of a scene. LOL!
April Martinez of GraphicFantastic has designed all the covers for the Shadowlands, including this one. Thank you, April!
Timeline
Since there is some crossover between the Masters of the Shadowlands series and the Sons of the Survivalist series (Master Z just can’t keep from getting involved, right?), I thought y’all might like a chronological order of events.
The thirteenth book in the Masters of the Shadowlands series was: Beneath the Scars (Master Holt & Josie’s story).
Several months later in the fall comes Defiance with Master Z & Jessica. This book takes us to Alaska and introduces the sons of the survivalist.
This book, Ghost & Valerie’s story in the Shadowlands series, The Effing List, occurs the following spring.
Before the end of their story, the first book in the Sons of the Survivalist, Not a Hero, begins.
Author’s Note
To my readers,
The books I write are fiction, not reality, and as in most romantic fiction, the romance is compressed into a very, very short time period.
You, my darlings, live in the real world, and I want you to take a little more time in your relationships. Good Doms don’t grow on trees, and there are some strange people out there. So while you’re looking for that special Dom, please, be careful.
When you find him or her, realize they can’t read your mind. Yes, frightening as it might be, you’re going to have to open up and talk to them. And you listen to them in return. Share your hopes and fears, what you want from them, what scares you spitless. Okay, they may try to push your boundaries a little—they’re a Dom, after all—but you will have your safeword. You will have a safeword, a
m I clear? Use protection. Have a back-up person. Communicate.
Remember: safe, sane, and consensual.
Know that I’m hoping you find that special, loving person who will understand your needs and hold you close.
And while you’re looking or even if you have already found your dearheart, come and hang out with the Masters of the Shadowlands.
Love,
Cherise
Prologue
November
* * *
Happy fiftieth birthday to me. And it was time and past time to make some decisions. Valerie Winborne rolled out of the narrow bed in the bedroom that had once been her daughter’s. And was now hers.
Two weeks ago, when her husband invited a second slave into their bed, Valerie had moved to this small, very bare bedroom. Who would have thought she’d miss her daughter’s garish posters on the walls?
In the tiny bathroom, she frowned at the sad-looking woman in the mirror.
A purpling bruise was obvious on her cheek. Yes, she had decisions to make.
Pudgy. Limp, dark blonde hair. Sallow complexion. Pitiful.
Removing her nightgown exposed the tiny red wound and bruise on her right breast. A lump on her mammogram resulted in a biopsy a few days ago.
The findings were negative. She was all right.
But the days of thinking she might have cancer—might die—had shaken her world. And today, she was fifty—and her husband had hit her.
She tilted her head to the ceiling. Listen up, all of you gods, I really don’t need wake-up calls like this. Right?
Once out of the shower and dressed, she retrieved her briefcase from under the bed and unlocked it. There were student papers to grade before the community college’s Thanksgiving holidays next week.
She started to set it on the desk and stopped abruptly.
Oh, wonderful. There was a sludgy puddle in the middle of a pile of papers. A pungent orange scent wafted up.
Someone, undoubtedly Kahlua, had dumped orange juice on the desk.
Anger roused…and faded to frustration.
No harm done, after all. The jealous, petty slave had vandalized things before. It was why Valerie kept her paperwork in the locked briefcase. All Kahlua had destroyed this time was years-old unclaimed homework that had been left out as a decoy.
From the kitchen, Kahlua’s shrill voice rose. “It’s not my fucking turn, you bitch!”
“You slut, it is your turn. I cooked yesterday,” Alisha yelled back.
Something shattered. Probably a plate.
Barry yelled, “Keep it down.”
As cupboards slammed in the kitchen, Valerie started to open her briefcase, then shook her head. The essays needed to be graded, but if she didn’t have coffee first, she’d probably mark every paper with an F. With a rueful laugh, Valerie rested her head in her hands, feeling the onset of a low-grade headache.
A morning person she was not.
Food would be good, but neither Kahlua nor Alisha liked to cook. After tasting their grudging efforts at making suppers, Barry had decreed that Valerie would cook in the evenings, despite working a fulltime job.
She would have refused, but she preferred her food to be edible.
It just wasn’t fair the two slaves brought in no money and didn’t do much of anything around the house.
Yet their presence was partly her fault. When Valerie had mentioned how a colleague talked about the fun in exploring BDSM, Barry’d been interested since his friends often boasted about their kinky lifestyles.
She’d thought trying something new might be fun too. After all, they’d been married for years; the children were raised and gone.
And the sex was, face it, boring.
They’d joined a BDSM group. She’d learned something about herself—like how she reacted to pain and domination and sex.
Unfortunately, all Barry learned was he liked having someone serve him. At the end of summer, when he wanted someone totally submissive to him—a slave—she’d reluctantly agreed to let Alisha move in. To give polyamory a try. In the BDSM group, some of the poly Masters had two or three slaves, and the women were all very happy. Sister slaves they called themselves.
She’d always wanted a sister.
Instead, she’d hated the whole thing. Two weeks ago, after the agreed-on three months trial, she told Barry it wasn’t working, and Alisha needed to leave.
Instead, he’d added Kahlua.
Valerie had almost walked out right then.
But she’d been married to him half of her life. Wasn’t this merely one more storm to weather?
No, no, it isn’t. She shook her head. Barry’s slaves would never be like sisters to her. In fact, she didn’t like them at all.
Valerie pulled in a breath. Why was she putting up with living in misery and anger and resentment? Had the gods given her a scare to force her to answer the hard questions? If your life ended in the next few months, what would you be pleased about?
What would you regret?
Pulling a pad forward, she started a list of things that made up a balanced life.
Health: Before the biopsy results came back, the doctor had mentioned her weight and lack of exercise could be a contributing factor to getting cancer. Well, she sure didn’t want to go through this again, so she’d fix it.
Exercise? Ugh. But she’d do it.
At least menopause hadn’t reared its ugly head quite yet.
Friends: Ha! That’d be nice. She liked people, but Barry always oh-so-subtly discouraged her friendships with other women. And when Alisha moved in, subtle disappeared. “Vanilla people don’t understand us, Val. You don’t need other friends; you have Alisha now.”
Spiritual: Got it covered. Meditation kept her sane and from murdering the other two women.
Financial: There was a mess. Barry’s construction contractor earnings fluctuated with the housing market, but her community college job brought in stable wages. They should’ve been doing all right but not when supporting two other people. Not when Barry kept buying the slaves expensive presents and alcohol. He’d decimated their joint savings account.
She tried to be a generous person, but nope, not any longer.
Work: Teaching her classes—world religions and philosophy—was her crack. What better way to utilize her experience of growing up in the Middle East?
She’d hoped to apply for a university job after earning her doctorate in philosophy last year, but Barry had discouraged her. She frowned. Had he viewed her success as competition?
Family: They’d been partners, raising their two children, loving each other, supporting each other.
And there was the crux of it, why she hadn’t acted before this. Instead, for months, she’d refused to believe that what they had was gone. That love had…died.
All she was to him now was a…housekeeper. Tears welled in her eyes.
And he was no longer the man she’d married. Before the children were born, he’d promised to abstain from drinking and had kept his promise.
Then Kahlua had arrived, bringing in more than attitude—she’d brought in alcohol.
Barry was drinking every day now, and his behavior had changed.
Last night, when Kahlua deliberately broke Hailey’s ceramic handprint from preschool, Valerie had sworn at her, using the Arabic insults she’d learned as a child.
Barry had turned on Valerie. Yelled at her. Slapped her.
She gingerly touched her bruised cheek. In all their years of marriage, he’d never struck her.
Straightening her shoulders, she rose and walked into the dining room.
Kahlua was serving Barry a plate of pancakes. Her husband looked good for a guy over fifty. During a mid-life crisis and with a receding hairline, he’d shaved his scalp. Being in construction, he’d stayed muscular.
Once upon a time, she’d loved his body. Had loved him.
At the table, Alisha was sipping coffee. The petite, slender redhead was in her thirties, a good fifteen years
younger than Valerie. She wore shorts, a blue sleeveless shirt, and a thin leather collar.
Because Barry wanted his slaves to be collared.
Valerie had refused to wear a collar. Or to be called a slave.
“Oh, look what the cat dragged in.” Kahlua picked up her own plate from the counter. Her shorts barely covered her ass cheeks; her tank top was skintight, and her collar bright red. She smirked at Valerie. “Sorry, I didn’t make you any. But pancakes would make your ass an even bigger mass.”
“Morning, babe.” Barry stuffed a bite of pancake in his mouth.
No one asked how she was feeling. No one wished her a happy birthday.
All right. Time to get this done. This…confrontation. She could do this, even though her childhood memories of her parents’ insults, shouting, and screaming seemed far too close these days.
“Good morning, you all.” She forced her lips into a smile. “And happy birthday to me, actually.
Barry blinked. “Oh, hey, I—”
“Sorry, Valerie,” Alisha said in her snotty voice. “We didn’t get you anything.”
“Not a problem. All I want for my present this year…is a divorce.”