Darkly (Follow Me)

by HELEN HARDT

  Still I say nothing as I finish my text. Then, “I just called Christopher. He’ll drive you home.”

  She lets go of the headboard.

  Without waiting for my permission.

  Chapter Eleven

  Christopher is on call at all times, and he’s paid very well to be. Still, when he needs time off, I give it to him. Tonight isn’t one of those times, and he texts me back quickly that he’s on his way.

  I leave my clothes strewn where they are and stride slowly—a forced slowly—to my walk-in closet. I grab my black velour robe and wrap it around my body, knotting the belt.

  I have to leave the bedroom. If I stay here, I’ll fuck her again. I’ll do things she’s not ready for, and that would be a mistake. A big mistake. She may even let me do those things, but then she’ll have regrets. I don’t want that to happen.

  What’s truly frightening, though, is that I have the desire—fuck, it’s almost an urge—to lie with her. To wrap my arms around her and spend the night with her, here in my bed. That the urge is nearly as strong as my urge to fuck isn’t lost on me.

  Which is why she’s leaving as soon as Christopher gets here.

  And why I’m leaving the bedroom.

  I clear my throat and hold up my phone. “I have an important message I need to respond to right away. Get dressed, and Christopher will meet you in the front room.”

  I try not to look at the regret in her warm eyes as I walk out of the bedroom, closing the door behind me.

  I try not to think about how she must be feeling. Probably a mixture of confusion and abandonment along with awe that she experienced an orgasm for the first time tonight. She’s no doubt thinking that whatever this is between us is over. That I’m done.

  That’s okay. She can think that for now.

  But she’s wrong.

  This is far from over.

  And I will make this up to her.

  …

  Sleep eludes me again for most of the night, and my cold shower this morning is like icicles piercing my flesh. Still, I’m up by six a.m. Only 1,440 minutes in each day, and I’ve learned never to waste one.

  After dressing and grabbing a quick cup of coffee and the breakfast sandwich Marilyn prepared for me, I head to the office, where a new set of emergencies greets me. After I gather the resources to put out the necessary fires, it’s nearly lunchtime—my usual time to hit the gym and then grab a healthy meal.

  Not today, though. Today I have lunch with my brother and father at the Oyster House. It’s a monthly date that I never break. I definitely won’t break it today, as I’m famished. Sure, I ate a small breakfast sandwich this morning, but I went without dinner last night because I couldn’t wait to get Skye in bed.

  Ben peeks into my office. “You ready?”

  I nod and gulp down the last sip of lukewarm coffee in my mug. “Yeah. Where’s Dad?”

  “He’s ditching us today. Wants to take the new legal intern out to lunch for some kind of orientation.”

  I wrinkle my forehead. “We have a new legal intern?”

  “Apparently. Kathy something.”

  Interesting. I don’t recall an intern at the meeting where Legal handed me my ass on a silver platter. Whatever. My legal team is the best, so if they need an intern, I’m good with it.

  I rise. “Let’s go. I’m starved.”

  …

  My brother is younger than I am, much more talkative and charismatic, and a bit of a loose cannon. Still, he’s smart as a whip and works nearly as hard as I do. His contribution to the company is unequaled, and I depend on him as my right-hand man. He may not have invented the product that put us on the map, but his skills at promotion and marketing led to our success just as much.

  “The good Misters Black.” The maître d’ smiles. “Your regular table?”

  “Is there any room at the bar today?” I ask.

  “For you two? Of course.”

  Union Oyster House is the oldest restaurant in Boston and even claims to be the oldest restaurant in continuous service in the United States. Daniel Webster and JFK were big fans. The place epitomizes the American dream, and I love everything about it—especially the oyster bar. Nothing like watching a fresh oyster get shucked, dabbing it with cocktail sauce, and sliding it onto your tongue. One time, right after Ben and I started Black, Inc., one of our favorite shuckers, Mickey, invited us behind the bar and taught us how to shuck. It’s a lot harder than they make it look. Mickey retired a few years ago, and today, as I take my place at the bar, I don’t recognize any of the shuckers.

  The din of conversation is white noise around us. This isn’t the best place to conduct business—it’s too noisy—but that’s not what these monthly lunches are for. They’re for family, to remember what’s important. I often need that reminder as I get so engrossed in my work, I neglect my brother and father.

  Ben and I have a good relationship. Brother squabbles sometimes, sure, but we’re pretty close. My father and I? That’s another story. Sober for over two decades, Robert Black is smart but trying in some ways. Due to things I don’t allow myself to think about, he and I have a love-hate relationship. But he’s my father, so I let him into my business, and he does an excellent job with the board of directors, of which he’s chairman. He’s a natural leader in many ways—he owned a small construction company before Black, Inc. made it big—and I learned much of what I know about running a business from him.

  In truth, I’m glad he bailed today. This way, I can talk to my brother about the woman he’s currently dating. Not my business, of course, but Ben seems to attract gold diggers. Not that I don’t. I’m just good at ferreting them out before things go too far.

  Of course, I never let things go too far anyway.

  I open my mouth to start the uncomfortable conversation when—

  “I hear you’re seeing Addison Ames’s assistant.”

  I keep my mouth from dropping open. Barely.

  Addison Ames isn’t someone I speak of. Ever. Just responding to her Instagram post the other day went way over the line as far as I’m concerned, but I couldn’t help myself. Her hypocrisy gets to me sometimes.

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Her sister.”

  “And you were talking to Apple Ames…why, exactly?”

  “We hang out every once in a while.”

  I pick my jaw up from the bar again. “You what?”

  “There’s a little history there.”

  “Yeah, but you know damned well—”

  “Easy, Bray. Jeez. We get together. We shoot the breeze about nothing in particular.”

  “And…?”

  “Yeah. We fuck. What’s wrong with that?”

  “I thought you were seeing that other woman. Morgan something or other.”

  Ben takes a sip of his water. “That? That’s over.”

  This isn’t entirely bad news. At least now I don’t have to have the Come to Jesus talk with my brother about gold-digging women. Morgan What’s Her Name had “get a prenup” written on her forehead.

  That’s where the “not bad news” part of this ends, though. Ben got together with Apple Ames, Addie’s twin sister. Yeah, they had a thing once. But Ben and I had an agreement. At least I thought we did.

  “The Ames sisters are off-limits,” I say. “Or did you forget about that when you got a chance to get laid?”

  “Apple is as casual as they come,” he says. “She doesn’t want anything from me, and I don’t want anything from her. Other than the occasional fuck. She’s a tigress in the sack, so…”

  “If it’s a fuck you want, you don’t have to get it from Apple Ames.”

  “Apple’s not Addie,” Ben says. “She’s the anti-Addie and then some.”

  “Still, with our history…”

  “Bray, honest. She’s not
her sister. She can’t even stand Addie. Which is why she was only too eager to tell me how pissed off Addie is that you’re dating her assistant.”

  “Not dating. And how does she even know?”

  “Hell if I know.”

  A plate of freshly shucked oysters appears in front of me. I inhale their tangy brininess. Not that I give a shit anyway. I’ll see whomever I please. I’ve never cared what Addison Ames thinks of any decision I make. I rarely give her a thought, except when one of her posts comes up in my feed. Ordinarily, I scroll on by.

  Why did that one coffee post irk me so much?

  I have no clue, but I’m glad it did. It led me to Skye Manning.

  “Apple says Addie’s seeing red about it. I swear to God, more than ten years and the woman’s still hung up on you.”

  “She’s not,” I say.

  “I know that’s what you want to think, but why else would she care about you dating her assistant? What’s her name, anyway?”

  “Skye.” My lips curve upward slightly just saying her name. Damn.

  I pick up an oyster, dab a bit of the red sauce on it, and slide it into my mouth. For a split second, I’m lost in the spicy tang.

  Then I swallow.

  “It’s none of Addie’s business who I date. And I’m not dating Skye.”

  “Oh?”

  “I don’t date, Ben.”

  “Semantics,” he says. “Is she a candidate for the club?”

  “You know I don’t have an interest in anyone who’s not.” I pick up another oyster. Dab of sauce. Slurp.

  Ben slides a few oysters into his mouth and then picks up his buzzing phone. “Sorry, I need to get this.” He rises and walks away from the bar.

  I take the opportunity to check my own phone. If he can interrupt a family lunch with a call, so can I.

  Instead of checking calls, though, my fingers seem to tap on their own and pull up Instagram. My post from this very restaurant is still front and center—the oysters Skye and I shared.

  I miss her. I actually fucking miss her.

  Damn.

  I tap on her tag to see her profile.

  Except it’s set to private. Smart woman. Within another second, I’ve asked to follow her—the first such request I’ve ever made.

  I put my phone away and slurp another oyster.

  Chapter Twelve

  Later that afternoon, I pick up my phone to see if Skye accepted my request.

  Another post from Addison Ames appears—in this one she’s wearing a horrendous grape-colored lip shade—complete with obsequious comments.

  Absolutely in love with @susannecosmetics new Burgundy Orchid lip plumper! Grab yours before they sell out! #sponsored #bigkisses #kissme #lipgloss #lips #kiss

  So luscious! Ordering mine now, @realaddisonames. Gorgeous!

  What a great color on you!

  Their lip plumper is the best. Love this new shade!

  I have no problem letting this one go by. It’s classic Influencer Addie, like always.

  I check my notifications, and—yes!—@stormyskye15 accepted my request.

  I scroll through her posts. Some yoga poses, some cute sayings, some selfies with a gorgeous dark-haired woman who she refers to as her bestie. But in the midst of the everyday Instagram photos are some that are truly art.

  Skye has talent.

  A close-up of an eastern bluebird, the yellow of its chest as vivid as sunshine and its blue back the color of the Pacific Ocean off Kauai. How did she capture the hues so brilliantly, when the bird could have flown away in an instant?

  Another photo is an old man—face wrinkled, a Red Sox cap on his head—riding through the cobbled streets of the Freedom Trail on a retro blue Schwinn bicycle. He’s clearly in motion, but Skye somehow captured him in perfect focus, his gaze intent on the road in front of him.

  My favorite are her two most recent photos. They’re raw in their simplicity. A black fire hydrant with a red top—which looks like a hat to me—sits on a busy Boston street as a shadow plays over it. The first photo is taken from above, and the shadow juts straight out, perpendicular to the hydrant. The second photo is from a different angle, and the shadow looms in the back, as if it’s a phantom coming from behind. I’m mesmerized.

  My God…

  Her photos are pure brilliance.

  I want to help her with her career. Get her work in galleries, magazines. I have connections. I can make this happen for her.

  Except she has to ask.

  And if I know Skye Manning, she’ll never ask.

  Which makes me want to help her all the more.

  For now, though, I have my own work to do.

  Ben and I are on a plane in the morning to New York for meetings, and I wonder whether I should pay a visit to my club.

  It’s been a long time, and I miss it, but…

  I want to go with Skye.

  And I’m not sure I’ll enjoy it without her.

  What the hell is happening to me?

  …

  Black Rose Underground.

  My leather club on the bottom floor of my Manhattan residence tower. After a shower to get the grime of travel to New York cleaned from my body, I dress in simple black pants, a black button-down, black casual shoes. I pull the key card out of my wallet and take my private elevator down. I have my own entrance to the club. One of the perks of owning it.

  My tastes are varied, and none of the clubs in Manhattan quite suited me, so I built my own.

  Confidentiality is a must, and members leave their inhibitions at the door.

  Claude Bonneville sits at his desk, burly and threatening. No one gets into Black Rose without Claude’s okay.

  “Hey, Mr. Black,” he says. “Long time no see.”

  “Been busy. How are things going here, Claude?”

  “No issues. Everyone’s cool. A couple new membership applications for you to approve. They’re in your inbox.”

  I nod. “Thanks. I’ll take a look.” I don’t check my Black Rose email except when I’m here. I have a private server in the back that I can’t even access from anywhere else. What happens at Black Rose truly stays at Black Rose.

  I walk through the main room, its bloodred carpeting speckled with members. Some are dressed casually, as I am. Others are dressed in club gear—leather, chains, corsets. Some are naked.

  Anything goes at Black Rose Underground—well, anything pertaining to wardrobe. I don’t allow edge play here, for which I have my reasons.

  I walk to the bar, where a topless woman gives me a dazzling smile. “What’ll it be, Mr. Black?”

  I don’t know her name. I don’t allow myself to get close to anyone who works at the club, other than Claude and Rick and Steve, my managers. “Wild Turkey, one ice cube.”

  “You got it.”

  A minute later, my drink appears. I bring it to my lips and let its aroma waft around me before I take a sip and let it float on my tongue. When I swallow, it burns. That’s what I like about Turkey. It’s a good slow burn. The other billionaires can have their top-shelf brandies. Give me good old Turkey any day of the week.

  Rick Myers, the manager on duty tonight, approaches me and sits next to me at the bar. “Braden, haven’t seen you in a while. Anything you need tonight?”

  “A scene, Rick.”

  “Did you bring someone?”

  I shake my head, picturing Skye in my mind. “Not this time. Anyone available?”

  “Aretha’s here.”

  Aretha Doyle, a New York model, was my arm candy for a year until we parted ways a few months ago. We never dated. I don’t date. She’s gorgeous and intelligent and very nice, but there wasn’t really any connection beyond that. Still, she was always up for a scene.

  “Is she?” I take another sip.

  “You want m
e to set it up?”

  I down the rest of the bourbon in one swallow. “Sure. Bring her to my suite.” I set the glass down, rise, and walk through the door leading to various exhibition rooms. My private suite is at the end of the hallway. I slide the key card through the door and enter.

  And I wait.

  Fifteen minutes later, a knock on the door.

  I unlock the dead bolt. Aretha Doyle stands before me clad in nothing but a thong and platform heels that make her eye to eye with me. Her dark hair falls over her broad shoulders, and her tits stick out like cereal bowls. They’re not fake, just small and perky—fashion-model tits.

  Nothing like Skye’s.

  But I’m not here to think about Skye. My earlier thought that I may not enjoy Black Rose without her spooked me more than a little. I’m here to immerse myself in a scene with a willing participant.

  Aretha is willing.

  I take her hand. “Come in.”

  “I’m surprised you wanted to see me, Braden.”

  “Why?”

  “Well…you said we were over in no uncertain terms.”

  She’s right. I did say that. She was getting too close to me, and I knew if we continued, she’d end up getting hurt. I don’t like hurting women. Not emotionally. Physically? That’s a different story, as long as the hurt ultimately leads to pleasure for both of us.

  “That doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy each other’s company now and again. You’re still a member of this club.”

  She nods. “What do you want tonight?”

  Skye.

  The word emerges in my mind seemingly by itself.

  I want Skye.

  Yes, I want a scene, but I want Skye more.

  Damn.

  I lead Aretha to the leather table. “Lie down.”

  She complies, like a good submissive. I bind her arms above her head but leave her ankles free. I walk to the wall, choose a riding crop, and return to Aretha splayed out on my table, beautiful and ready and willing.

  I bring the crop down hard on her tits.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I’m back in Boston Friday morning, still unsated.

  One lash to Aretha’s tits, and I knew I couldn’t continue with the scene. I wasn’t hard. I wasn’t excited. I apologized and sent her away. As much as I craved a scene with a willing partner, I craved something else more.