“Emmaline,” I say.
“Oh, yeah. I thought you’d be calling today.”
My blood chills. “Why is that?” I ask. I’m barely in control. My heart thuds against my ribcage and my blood pounds in my ears.
“Don’t make me say it, Em.”
I wait. He’s not getting an ounce of mercy from me. Not a fucking ounce.
He finally sighs. “Yeah. I withdrew the money. I made a few bad investments and had to pay off my debts.”
I wait for more, for an apology, some shred of regret or remorse to soften the betrayal, but nothing comes. “There’s none left?” I ask, hating how my voice quivers.
“No. I still owe money. Mom said you had a business and were making good money, so if you can just lend me--”
I hang up the phone, breath heaving. I close my eyes, squeezing them against the tears that finally come streaming down my cheeks and leaving hot trails in their wake. My skin tingles. The wave of reality threatening to crash down on me for the last few minutes finally comes down with crushing force. He left, but I always clung to the idea that he regretted it, that he missed me and would try to make it right some day. It made dealing with my mom’s increasingly disturbing behavior and the other stress in my life easier.
It’s all gone. Not just the money, but my hope too. My hope of making a life for myself better than everyone thought I could. My business. My passion. I can see it all slipping out of reach and there’s nothing I can do.
Even worse than my own failure is the way I’m failing my best friend. I know Scarlett has made sacrifices to work for me, and I’ve been doing everything I can to pay her what she deserves. Now? God. Now I don’t even know if I’ll be able to keep paying her.
I lose track of how long I sit there alone on the bench, feeling more completely alone than I’ve ever felt. There’s a world of responsibility and sadness threatening to close in around me and I have to somehow find a way to shoulder it all and push through. Somehow.
I press an iron to the heat transfer pad, applying a decal to the onesie I’m working on. Scarlett huffs in frustration when she accidentally tears the vinyl design she was peeling from the transfer paper.
“Dammit, be careful!” I snap.
Scarlett looks up in surprise, face reddening. The vinyl is expensive, but I’ve never lashed out at her like that before for a mistake. It’s part of the business.
“Sorry,” I say quickly, feeling myself deflate.
“Hey,” she says, moving closer and putting a hand on my arm. “What’s going on? You’ve been off all morning. I thought you’d be all bubbly because your bank account is probably looking really nice right about now. Today was the day, right? Emma?”
I shake my head, but can’t stop the tears from coming. Dammit. My mind floods with unwanted memories. Images of the bills laid out on my kitchen table that are now going to get more and more overdue, of the fees that will add up, of how long it will take before collectors start calling. It’s too much. My body shakes as a wave of sobs rip through me.
Scarlett is holding me tightly, squeezing her arms around me and shushing me. “It’s okay, Emma. You’re okay.”
I let her soothe me, pushing down my worries for the moment until I get control of myself. She gently sits me down on a box and pulls a stool up across from me and sits, eyeing me critically. “What’s going on?”
It all spills out of me. The problems with my mom I’ve been holding in, the bills, the debt, and finally the trust fund. Scarlett’s face wrinkles with sympathy and she squeezes my knee when I finish. I feel like an emptied vessel, having poured everything out makes the wounds feel fresh and raw, but somehow better in a way.
“This is going to sound a little weird,” says Scarlett slowly. “But I know a way you could make some extra money. There’s this club, it’s for people with… exotic tastes. I worked there to pay my way through college. You just have to wear the, uh, uniform and play by the rules. If you think of it like acting, it’s really not that bad.”
I frown, confused. “I’m not following...”
She sucks in a breath, obviously uncomfortable. “It’s a BDSM club. Club Crave. The clients are all extremely wealthy from CEOs to senators. They paid girls like me to help create atmosphere and sell the scene.”
“Sell the scene?” I ask, still not fully wrapping my head around what she’s saying.
“You would play the role of a submissive. You mingle with the guests, socialize, and keep an eye on everything to make sure no one is breaking the rules.”
“I don’t think this is for me,” I say quickly.
“It pays five grand a week,” she says, smirking a little.
“A week?” I ask. “For how many hours of work?”
“You would only work weekends and it’s only from 6 P.M. to 2 A.M.”
“Five grand a week for two days of work? You’re serious?”
She nods. “I still have the Matron’s number. I could be your reference. If you want.”
I swallow hard. BDSM? My knowledge of the subject starts and stops with Fifty Shades. But I’ve admittedly always felt drawn to the idea of it all. I’ve never experimented sexually. Maybe it was just the guys I was with or my own self-consciousness, but the only sex I’ve ever had is as standard as it comes, minus the whole part where I enjoy it. The money sounds like an answer to my problems, and the club… I’m a little embarrassed by how much the idea is quickly taking root in my head, making me think a crazy thought. The thought that maybe the key to my stunted sexuality is buried somewhere in the world of kinky sex, leather straps, handcuffs, and collars. “I don’t know,” I say. But I do know. I’m going to try it because I have no other choice.
“I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I think you should still go to the party tonight. It will help get your mind off things. And I already told Michelle you were coming.”
“Why not?” I ask, feeling more than a little crazy.
21
Logan
My mansion was converted into the perfect party spot while I was at the office. I pull my Aston Martin DB11 into the lowest level of my private garage. I drove past a small army of cars parked outside from the catering crews and decorators still putting the finishing touches on my place. The door closes automatically behind me when I pull in. I step out, feeling a sense of numbness when I look at all my cars. Millions of dollars of steel and rubber are in this one floor of my garage alone, and I can’t muster up even an ounce of pride to know it’s all mine.
I push through it though. I’m always a little prone to dreariness on the anniversary of the day I should have become a father. I’m not the sentimental type by a long shot, but this is the one exception. I step inside, fighting the urge to growl out loud as I push past caterers and decorators bustling through my house. I just want a hot shower and some time to relax, but it’s painfully clear that’s not going to happen. I’m bombarded with questions and have to spend the next hour grudgingly grunting and nodding between color choices and where to put this or that. I finally brush it all off and tell them to just fucking decide because I don’t care.
The party starts in full force an hour later. I’m already irritated from having to deal with the people I paid to set up the party. It’s important to get the party right, though. One of the reasons I’m the best at what I do is I know how to get the most out of the people who work for me. I push them harder than any boss they’ve ever had and I demand far more of them than most even know they can give. I also show them appreciation with parties like this on a regular basis. On top of the paid vacations, bonuses, and incentives I offer. These parties are a large part of what makes working for my company a can’t miss opportunity.
I stand over the main entrance of my foyer. I’m on the second floor, leaning against the bannister and watching as group after group of well-dressed young professionals file in. The men wear clean, expensive suits and the women look dazzling in elegant dresses. I try to keep my mind on business, but I can’t stop t
hinking about Club Crave, and the sudden, nearly irresistable urge to go back there and reignite that side of myself. I step down the stairs, catching the eyes of ambitious men and women who instantly recognize me.
I know most of their faces. I’ve always had a talent for faces and names, so I’m able to slide through the crowd, shaking hands, kissing cheeks, and clapping shoulders while greeting everyone by name and asking after the little details I know about them. It’s all part of the game. No one wants to feel like a cog in the machine. Everyone wants to be important and feel special, like they could move up the ladder any day. I give them that, whether it’s true or not, it makes them work hard and like doing it.
As soon as I catch a break from mingling with my employees, I head to the bar and let the fake smile fall from my face. I reach past the bartender and pour myself a straight shot of tequilla, draining it and wincing as it burns its way down my throat.
“Mr. Steel,” says a sultry voice to my right.
I turn to see my new secretary and my eyes are drawn down to the ridiculous neckline of her dress. If she so much as breathed too deeply, her nipples would be proudly on display. She’s bold, I’ll give her that. Her name escapes me for a fraction of a second, but I recover quickly.
“Lacey, you look wonderful tonight. Did you ever find out about those tickets?” The tidbit of information comes back to me with her name. She was trying to get tickets to an orchestra with her friend, but they were sold out.
Her cheeks flush red and she leans against the bar, resting her head on her knuckles. Her eyes are hungry as she looks at me and bites her lip, clearly not realizing I asked her a question.
I squeeze her shoulder briefly and stand. “Enjoy tonight,” I say, leaning in so she can hear me over the music that’s now playing. “There’s no better party in the city on Valentine’s Day.”
She looks after me, mouth open as if she was about to speak, but her words thankfully fail her and I’m able to slip away.
The party is rapidly starting to look more like a party and less like a company sponsored event. To their credit, the decorators did a good job this year, as they usually do. Stage lights were brought in to set the entire room in pink lighting with some areas of bright red. The main living room was converted into a dance floor, and a professional DJ is set up as well. Pink lights line the patio out back and the pool even has red filters over the recessed lighting.
The servers are scantily clad men and women dressed in Valentine’s Day themed outfits. They pass around frozen Tequila hearts on sticks dyed with red food coloring and dusted with salt and lime. There are three full bars throughout the ground floor and more than enough appetizers and finger foods to feed the entire crowd twice over. I can’t take two steps without being stopped by someone, shaking a hand, or being forced to endure someone’s thinly-veiled pitch for why they should be promoted.
It’s only been thirty minutes and I’m already about to lose it. I quickly assess the party and decide it’s already moving in the right direction and has enough momentum to stay that way. There is a growing group of my employees on the dance floor letting loose. I catch a few flashes of women’s skirts riding scandalously high as they bump and grind themselves into their dance partners at the heart of the group.
I slip upstairs, not completely avoiding notice, but only drawing a few curious glances as I retreat to my bedroom and sigh heavily, running hands through my hair. Music thumps loudly from downstairs, sending vibrations through my feet that I can feel in my chest. As always, my eyes are drawn to the door of my play room. Even the door itself promises the sensuality within. It’s padded in thick, polished leather, dimpled with regularly spaced leather rivets. The lock is thick and extravagant, and the key is only a few feet away, hidden in the false bottom of a vase that rests on top of my bookshelf.
Soon. The last time I closed that door was one of the darkest points in my life, and maybe the only way to claw my way back from that darkness will be to open it again. I’ve resisted it for so long, but I have needs, and I can’t suppress them forever.
22
Emmaline
We’re a little late by the time Scarlett and I arrive at Mr. Steel’s party. His house is enormous. It actually looks more like an expensive resort style hotel than a house. I can’t even begin to imagine how many bedrooms there could be inside and what other kinds of amenities a house like this must have. The driveway is lined with cars, young valets in vests jog out to grab keys from their owners and pull the cars around to a parking area down the road. I bulge my eyes at Scarlett, completely blown away by the extravagance of it all.
“This is insane,” I say.
“Why are you whispering?” Scarlett asks, grinning as she jabs me in the side.
I blush a little, smiling up at the house. “I can’t believe we get to go inside.” I swallow hard, suddenly nervous. “You’re sure secret service isn’t going to tackle us when we go through the door or something, right?”
“We’ll be fine. Just be casual. They might tackle you if you keep clutching your handbag in front of your stomach like some little old lady.”
I look down and sigh when I realize she’s right. My fingers are digging into the fake leather like I’m afraid someone’s going to steal it. Not likely at a place like this.
We step inside and I’m freshly amazed by the party. “You said this was a company party,” I say to Scarlett as we cross the foyer and make our way toward one of the bars.
“Mr. Steel apparently used to be quite the playboy, so it’s no surprise he throws a wild party.”
“No kidding,” I say, my voice so breathless it’s completely lost in the thrum of the music and the din of voices.
We take our places at the bar and have a few drinks. I keep reaffirming with the bartender that he’s sure they’re free.
“Completely free, Miss,” he says for the fourth time, sounding a little irritated.
I notice Scarlett looking longingly toward the dance floor, but she’s a good friend, and obviously doesn’t want to abandon me by myself at a party where I don’t know anybody. She’s probably even more reluctant to leave me after I gushed out all my problems earlier today.
I put a hand on her forearm. “Hey, go have fun.” I smile a little more confidently than I feel. “I’m going to throw a couple more free drinks down and then go scope the place out.”
She frowns, confused for a second before she laughs. “Really? What are you going to do, go upstairs and just start snooping?”
“No!” I say, scandalized. “But when these drinks are ready to come out, my shy bladder might draw me upstairs where I can get a better look at the place. I just have to know how many bedrooms there are.”
She quirks her lips up in amusement. “You’re a trip, Emma. You’re sure though? I really don’t mind hanging with you if you’re--”
“I’m sure,” I say. “The worst that could happen is I get lost in the mansion and they have to send a search party after me. Either way, I get to check out this super nice house, so it’s a win win.”
Scarlett laughs and leans in to kiss my cheek. “Don’t snoop too hard, and be careful going up those stairs in your heels.”
“Yes, mom,” I say, smiling back at her. “Go have fun.”
It’s only a few minutes after she leaves that I really do have to go to the bathroom. I walk through the throbbing mass of partiers, marveling at how quickly the mood is shifting from fun to wild. Mr. Steel really does know how to throw a party. I look at the stairs, hesitating. Absolutely no one is going up to the second floor, as if it’s some kind of unwritten rule. I sigh, losing my nerve and looking for a bathroom on the ground floor. I step inside the first one and have to stumble out, apologizing when I walk in on a man with his hand all the way up a woman’s dress, fingering her mercilessly.
I press my back against a wall, breathing heavily. I suddenly feel a little overwhelmed, like this party is over my head. But if I plan to really go through with applying to Club Crave,
maybe this is exactly the initiation I need. Chances are I’ll see people doing things that are a lot more risque than hooking up in a bathroom. Still, would it kill them to lock the door?
I check several more bathrooms, finding locked doors and lines that are too long to wait in. My need to pee eventually overwhelms my good sense, and I scurry up the stairs, heels clicking loudly on the marbled steps. The music still booms upstairs and I can still hear the whoops and laughter from the party. I check several doors before finally finding one that’s unlocked. I step inside the room and cringe when I realize I probably just found the master bedroom. It’s absolutely massive. French doors lead from the back of the room to a beautiful patio with curving staircases that lead down to a terraced garden below. The garden is hedged in by tall, perfectly trimmed bushes.
My eyes slide past the king sized bed and lock on a strange, leather door set into the wall. I walk toward it, naturally drawn closer and closer, curiosity booming in my chest. I’m about to reach out and touch the door when another door within the bedroom swings open, nearly knocking me over. I stumble backward as a man in a towel steps out, head down as he rubs his soaking hair with a black towel.
Tanned skin. Broad shoulders. Eight-pack abs. My eyes dart from feature to feature of the masterpiece in front of me. He lifts the towel and cold gray eyes pierce through me. There’s no shame or embarrassment in his face, just a slight quirk of his eyebrow. He has thick, dark hair that somehow manages to fall perfectly over his face even though he was just drying it with a towel. I bite my lip, taking in the scruff dusting his startlingly defined jawline.
“Are you lost?” he asks.
His deep voice startles me. I jump a little, and realize I’ve just been shamelessly staring at him. “Sorry,” I blurt, cheeks blazing with heat.
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