Another part of my routine.
My smile slowly vanishes as I run my fingertips along the scars littering my neck. No matter how much time passes, they barely seem to fade. It’s been four long years, but they’re still there, reminding me of a darker time in my life. As I stare at my neck in the mirror, a weight presses down on my chest, but after a moment I push it away in defiance.
I survived all that, I think to myself, dotting the concealer on my neck and right shoulder and then reaching for my foundation. And I’m stronger now.
He didn’t ruin me. I won’t let him hold any power over me anymore.
Straightening my back, I swallow thickly and square my shoulders as I delicately press the foundation onto my skin and smooth the concealer on the scars on my neck until they’re all gone. After I’m done with my face, I toss the foundation into the decorative velvet-lined box where I keep my makeup, the memories already fading. Coffee is the next thing on my agenda.
Tick, tick, tick. The small ticks echo in my head, reminding me how far I’m behind already. I grit my teeth. Crap.
I almost call out, “I’m coming, Roxy!” as I make my way to the kitchen, but then I catch myself, a feeling of sadness coursing through me. I take a deep breath and rub under my tired eyes. It’s a habit I have yet to break. I’m so used to Roxy being there every time I turn around that I still haven’t gotten over the fact that she’s gone.
Tears prick my eyes as my bare feet pad on the linoleum and I start the coffee maker. Two clicks, and it’s brewing. I should grab something to eat, but instead I find myself lost in thought as the sounds of the water heating fill the empty space. The quiet space. Quiet because she’s not here anymore.
Roxy, my Golden Retriever, was such a lovable dog. She was always there for me whenever I needed her. She was so happy. I swear dogs can smile, and she was always smiling. We were practically inseparable. And she didn’t give a rat’s ass that I had scars all over my back or that I was scared of things I couldn't see, of dark memories that I desperately wanted to leave in the past.
She just loved me unconditionally and only wanted to comfort me. I clung to that love, fostering it. She was my therapy, and I came to depend on her for so much. I can’t count how many times I woke up out of a night terror, frightened out of my mind, only to find Roxy sitting right there, nuzzling against me and whining with true pain from worrying over me. Her calming presence would almost always soothe my anxiety. It’s times like last night, when I’d been plagued by a particularly dark terror, where I miss her the most.
It hurts so badly to think that she’s never going to lay with me in bed again. To think I can no longer hold her close and pet her with long strokes as I whisper, thank you into her thick fur. She’d done so much for me, more than anyone else has: loving me, healing me, that even if she were here now, I’d never be able to repay her for it.
I try to lean against the counter and my elbow knocks the plastic travel mug off the counter. I try to grab it but miss, the plastic hitting the tips of my fingers before falling onto the floor with a loud clatter. I wince from the loud noise and wait for it to settle before picking it up.
“I guess it’s just going to be one of those days,” I mutter out loud to myself, wiping at the tears in the corner of my eyes with the back of my hand. At least it’s not broken. I bend down, scooping the mug up and finally resting against the counter as the smell of coffee fills the room. Since Roxy’s death, some days have been harder than others, with me nearly overcome with emotion. Unfortunately, this was shaping up to be one of those days. I suppose that’s just how grief works.
It’s even worse considering Roxy was the first pet I’ve ever had, and that she was the only companionship I had when I first came back home. I pause as I pour cream and sugar into my coffee cup. Maybe it’s not right to call this place home. I’m still hours away from what used to be home. The small suburbs of New York will never be home again. I just can’t face the constant reminders. I feel guilty about distancing myself from my family and the life I used to have, but it’s for the better. It’s the only way I’ll find happiness after everything that happened.
I take a deep breath, setting the mug on the counter and inhaling the smell of fresh hot French vanilla coffee, doing everything I can to let go of the painful reminder. Losing Roxy was very difficult, but I can’t keep going on like this. I’ll always love her, but she wouldn’t want me living with this constant negativity. I just know in my heart she wouldn’t.
Closing my eyes, I take a small sip of the coffee and let the warmth fill me, comfort me. When I open them a moment later, they focus like a laser onto the clock on the microwave.
5:45
Shit, now I’m really running late. Sighing, I take another sip of my coffee, trying to relax. I’m only behind by fifteen minutes, but the dogs are there and waiting. I don’t want to disrupt our routine. They need it just as much as I do.
A low ding from my phone draws my eyes over to the kitchen table where my laptop is sitting open from the previous night, and I see my cell screen lit up on the edge of the lap top with a text. I let out a sigh and quickly grab it off the side of the table, hitting the keypad and waking the laptop to life. I don’t really have time for this, but I can’t not answer it. Before I can check my message, I see a notification pop up in the lower right corner on my laptop screen.
Darlinggirl86 has come online.
My phone dings again, but I ignore it as my last DM with Kiersten lights up with a message. I smile as I read what she’s typed.
Darlinggirl86: <3 you girl. You were right! I should’ve gone shopping. It made me feel so much better. I finally got that red dress that I’ve been eyeing for like a month now. And you wanna know the best thing? I look damn good in it too!
Smiling, I type a response while huffing out a small chuckle.
Katty93: <3 you too! I bet you look damn good in it too!
It always makes me feel good to talk to Kiersten. I consider her to be one of my best friends, even though we’ve never met. I’ve never even seen her face. We’ve spent the last four years bonding over this support group message board, engaging in conversations about how messed up our lives were, sharing our dreams, hopes and aspirations. And most importantly, moving forward.
I wait for a response, but after almost a minute passes, I type in that I have to go. I really hate being late. I don’t like making the pups wait for me. I finally take a look at my phone and let out a heavy sigh when I see who it is. Mom.
Katia, I miss you honey! When are you going to come home?
Seeing the message gives me mixed emotions. I’m lucky to have my mother, to have a loving family. But they’re a part of my past I just can’t come to terms with. In this new city, with a new life, the past doesn’t matter. I can be anyone. But with them, I’ll always be Katia, their daughter who was taken for four years. And worse, when I look at them, I see how the years changed them.
Maybe it’s wrong of me, but when I think of her, I want to see the mother I knew. Seeing her reminds me of the time I was away. All the times I missed. When I last saw her, before they took me, she was happy, young and vibrant. That was over eight years ago.
I want to see her blonde hair that looks just like mine, not the silver shade that’s taken its place. Her gorgeous smile that I always envied, and blue eyes that sparkled with laughter. She tries, but the pain is still there. And it hurts me too much to see it.
When I was gone she never stopped looking for me, never once gave up on finding her precious daughter. I hate that I caused her so much stress, so much pain. Even if it wasn’t intentional, I still feel responsible. I still feel fucking guilty. I hate that she had to worry about me night after night, hoping, praying that she would one day find me alive.
But she couldn’t save me. No one could. I had to save myself.
And looking at her only reminds me of that.
I really can’t deal with this today, I think to myself, tearing my glassed-over eyes
away from the screen and not bothering to look at the five other messages she’s sent.
I love my mother dearly. But it’s better this way. I don’t want her tainted any more by what happened to me. That’s not to say that I’m not better now. I’m a survivor.
I suck in a deep, trembling breath. I don’t want to tell her that I’m not coming home. I’m trying to get over everything. And despite my trepidation about dealing with my mother, I do want to see my family again. But I can’t right now. I’m just not ready. It’s been four years of recovery, only nine months out here on my own, and I know I’m a stronger, better person for it. Yet, deep down I still feel like I’m… not whole. I’m still healing. And that’s okay. But being away from home makes everything easier. It hurts me to admit it, but I just want to be alone.
Well not alone, alone.
My fingers find the dip of my throat as my heart pounds in my chest as I think back to my previous conversation with Kiersten before she abruptly logged off. I’d finally confessed what I’d been thinking for some time. Something that I knew I deeply wanted, but was afraid to admit; my need for a Master.
I shake my head at the memory, still not believing I admitted this, to me or to her. After everything I went through, how more fucked up in the head could I get?
Tick, tick, tick. Fuck, I need to get my shit together and get going.
My eyes stray back to my cell’s screen and I read my mother’s first text again, my heart feeling like it’s being tugged down by an anchor. I want to answer her and soothe her worry. I want to reassure her that I’ll be there soon. But deep down, I know that’s not enough.
Taking a deep breath, I let my fingers fly across the touch screen keys.
I love you mom. I promise I’ll come home soon.
I stare at the text for a moment, debating on whether I should delete it. I don’t want to make a promise I know I can’t keep. Yet at the same time, I don’t want to cause her any more pain or guilt. I want her to feel better, just like I want to feel better.
After what seems like an eternity, I close my eyes and hit send, hoping desperately that I don’t regret it.
Chapter 3
Isaac
My bare feet tread the cold porcelain tiles of my state of the art kitchen floor. The steel gleams with the bright morning light streaming through the large floor-to-ceiling windows on the far wall of the breakfast nook. My house may be quiet and empty, but it’s luxurious and fitted with every upscale feature I could find.
Modern, and sophisticated. It’s exactly what I wanted.
The coffee maker is already going and the sounds of steaming water get louder as the addicting scent of fresh ground coffee fills my lungs.
I cover my yawn and then stretch my arms above my head, feeling the stiff muscles ease. My flannel pajamas hang low on my hips as I crack my neck. Same shit, different day, but I’m ready for the excitement of the club. I’m determined to look into recruitment and go through candidates. I’ve been talking to Madam Lynn, hinting at the fact that I’m interested in finding a potential Slave.
She hears me, but I have no idea if she’s really listening.
The door to the fridge opens with a small hum and I crouch down to grab a pepper and a few eggs for my morning omelet.
I love cooking. It’s the one thing my mother used to do for me. Before things changed, she always cooked me breakfast. Even after things changed… for a little while.
I shake off the memories threatening to suffocate me and crack the eggs on the side of a bowl, whisking them as I try to ignore the memory of her laugh. She had a beautiful laugh, my mother. The sounds changed as she did. They were once light and airy, but they changed to a rough voice that cracked when she spoke. In the end, I didn’t even recognize her.
I turn on the gas burner and let the pan heat as I grab my cell.
I work at Club X and its safety is my priority, but my security business is still private and taking inquiries.
I put the phone on speaker and listen to the voicemails from yesterday. I rarely get a call for RP Security. That’s what we were called before transferring to the club. R and P, for Rocci and Knight. Zander and I still own the firm 50/50, but we hardly ever take clients. It’s simply not worth it. Well Zander never took clients. He’s a silent partner. Still, it’s not worth it.
I listen to a message from a man wanting a security detail at an exclusive getaway trip for him and his mistress as I dice up the pepper and half of an onion. I shake my head, deleting it and not even thinking twice about calling him back as I toss the knife into the stainless steel sink.
That’s not what my business is for. I started it myself around the same time Lucian quit college and created his company. It wasn't long before I followed suit. The three of us were inseparable, and in many ways we still are. Zander footed the bill for both Lucian and me. He’s good for fronting money in exchange for stocks, and not doing any of the work. Hiring Joshua as my right hand man took the business to the next level and turned it high-end.
But I’m not interested in being a lookout while a cheater gets his dick wet.
I created this business for one reason. My mother’s laugh echoes in my head again as I watch my breakfast cook in the pan. I'm losing my appetite more with every second that passes.
Murder. Vengeance. I needed the man who killed her dead.
She may not have been a real mother to me in the last two years of her life. The alcohol she used to numb the pain of losing my father overseas eventually turned to coke. Holding me close and crying on my shoulder because she missed my father turned to beating me because I reminded her of him.
She was responsible for her actions. I know that. But he didn’t help. He made them worse.
Jake Shapero. Her boyfriend who got her addicted to harder drugs and led her down the path that ultimately destroyed the mother I once knew.
Also, the asshole who broke my jaw because I dared to talk back. I flex my jaw at the memory as I use the spatula to lift the perfect omelet off the pan and onto a plate. I have no desire to eat it at this point, but I still add salt and pepper and sit at the table. Routine is important.
I close my eyes, and he’s there. It wasn’t just one punch, but I didn’t see him. As I covered my face with my forearms, I saw her in the background. Sitting at the table, bent over and wiping the coke from under her nose, not even bothering to show emotion.
That’s not what made me want to kill him. That’s not why I got into this business.
When I was fourteen, I watched him kill her. It was the culmination of two long years of abuse and neglect, night after night. I watched him hit her; I watched him strangle her. He didn’t see me there, and I’d longed stopped defending her. A broken jaw, busted ribs, and beatings from both of them for interfering taught me to stay away.
I hadn’t realized he was actually killing her. I couldn’t believe she was really dead, even after she fell to the floor and his anger changed to fear as he shook her.
I watched him, and did nothing. The guilt weighs heavy on my chest as I take a bite of the tasteless eggs. Hating the memory.
I was tortured for years while I lived with my distant Aunt Maureen. She’s much older than my mother, almost like a grandmother. She gave me a good life; she took care of me as though I wasn’t troubled. But I never forgave myself.
How could I?
I never wanted to go to college, but Aunt Maureen made me. I was happy to keep her preoccupied with me being in college while I learned more useful skills. Meeting Joshua and Zander was the best thing that happened to me in college. I learned how to track down targets, how to hack into databases and effectively get someone’s records and backgrounds.
That someone being Jacob Shapero.
I wasn’t surprised to learn he was in prison for assault and battery, as well as possession. I had to wait over a year. A year of growing my security business with Joshua and making it legit. Thanks to Zander, a silent partner, we had the funds and clientele to make i
t exclusive. But every day was just one step closer to my goal. The night he was released, I waited for a sign of activity. I had ten close contacts' phones monitored. And he made the call not fifteen minutes after leaving the station. The second night, I crept into his deceased grandmother’s house and shot him in the back of the head. Waiting that long fucking killed me, but I had to do it right. I spent years preparing, and it only took two days to see it through once I had the opportunity.
I have a lot of connections now, six years later. Many powerful and also corrupt people, due to this clientele and because of the deals I’ve taken. It’s not about the money. It’s about making things right. The business is legit, although some of my methods toe the line. Occasionally I break the law to obtain information. That’s the business I run. We call it security, but we’ve been known to do things a little less legal.
I haven’t taken a private client in a long fucking time. It's been years. The club takes a lot of my time and if there’s a client in need, I hand them off to someone who’s qualified. The money’s good, and the business is streamlined.
Sometimes I wonder if my focus on routine and careful practices, my seclusion and most notably my past, are why I am the way I am. Why I thrive on privacy and control. Not in everything. Just things that matter.
In relationships, especially.
I need complete control. I need trust so deep that she’ll give herself to me completely.
I’m not interested in normal. I’ve had a few relationships, but none that meant anything to me. None that lasted very long.
The two M/s relationships I’ve had in the club didn’t last long either. Neither of them gave me what I needed. And they sure as fuck didn’t need me. They wanted the relationship as a way to give up control, but not because they needed to; they just didn’t want responsibility. They didn’t want the other aspects of being a Slave. Neither lasted more than a few weeks. I want someone who needs me. I’m desperate for it.
Highest Bidder Collection Page 23
