Perfect Vision Read online

  Perfect Vision

  L.M. Halloran

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2018 by L.M. Halloran

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ISBN: 978-1983020742

  Cover photography from Shutterstock.com

  Editing by Emily A. Lawrence, Lawrence Editing

  lmhalloran.com

  Contents

  A Note From the Author

  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

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Epilogue

  Stay Connected

  Acknowledgments

  ☆ Bonus Content ☆

  The Muse

  Also by L.M. Halloran

  About the Author

  A Note From the Author

  Perfect Vision is dark, romantic suspense and contains themes which may be difficult for some readers. These elements include BDSM, violence, and explicit sex. 18+ only, please.

  For Steph, Dawn, & Anna

  Wherever you go, there you are.

  Unknown

  1

  It’s one of those moments. The kind people talk about always remembering perfectly no matter how much time has passed. Flash-freeze of surroundings. Colors and smells. Like how my parents remember exactly where they were, what they were doing—down to what they were wearing—when a man first walked on the moon and when JFK died.

  Frozen memories latch to human extremes. We never hang on to the mundane—those experiences are the thinnest threads between beads of trauma or exultation. They make us real, give us life, but rarely do they define us.

  We each have our own string of beads, different colors and shapes that build over the course of our lives. But every once in a while, beads are shared among many. Almost exact duplicates, save slight differences in texture or tone. Binding us together despite our best efforts to remain apart. Do you remember where you were? What you were doing? And everyone remembers.

  I wonder if he will remember, like I will. I wonder if we’ll share the same bead on our timeline threads. If we do share this moment, its bead of space and time, mine is matte black and pitted. His is white and sparkling, lit by fires of righteous rage.

  But regardless of color, they’re the same shape. And their cores will hold the same sensory memories, if not the same emotional ones.

  The floor, sticky yet slippery. The smell, a mixture of gas fumes, wet copper, and unwashed bodies. The sounds of women screaming, sobbing, and the click of the lighter in his hand.

  As chains rattle and bladders release in terror, I’m one of the quiet ones. An empty body-shell. I watch him, and he watches me.

  “This is your fault,” he says.

  I nod, wet my lips, and rasp, “I know.”

  Am I horrified at my end? Afraid of pain?

  Not quite.

  Honestly, I’m relieved.

  2

  A few of my mental screws are loose. Why else would I be sitting on a bench in a brightly-lit hallway beside two women doing sexed-up Edward Scissorhands impressions? Halloween was four months ago.

  Their black latex bodysuits have cutouts around the shoulders and waist, highlighting their toned, tanned bodies. I can’t even imagine the crotch-sweat happening right now. What if they have to pee? Is there a zipper down there?

  Defying logic, they don’t look uncomfortable as they chat and laugh quietly. In fact, they look like they’re exactly where they’re supposed to be. Like they belong here. I’m clearly missing a big piece of the puzzle. Did I overlook some fine print in the email? Was there a specified dress code?

  Here to interview for a bartending position, I’m wearing skin-hugging black pants, my comfiest ankle boots, and a tight black T-shirt—a nice one, flattering and new. Black on black, but actual, practical clothing. I look good. Sleek and professional, my dark blond hair pulled back and my makeup perfect thanks to YouTube tutorials.

  What I saw of the newly constructed nightclub on my walk through was modern and on trend. White walls. Discreet lighting. Various seating areas—tables, couches, chaises—that in my former life I wouldn’t mind enjoying on a night out. A huge, sleek bar I can definitely see myself behind. Zero indication that the intended clientele are people with latex fetishes.

  The online job advertisement had been oddly obscure, the description of the club vague and heavy on words like exclusive and private. God willing, the club’s exclusivity doesn’t translate to obligatory background checks for employees. Either way, the gamble is one I have to take. Despite working part-time at two other bars, I have fourteen dollars in my bank account. Living alone in Los Angeles is not cheap.

  The fluorescent lights overhead are giving me a headache, and the presence of four closed doors in the hallway feels increasingly ominous. Clearly television has rotted my brain, because for several minutes I entertain the possibility I’m in a horror movie. Any second one of the doors will open and a clown with a chainsaw will jump out.

  To distract myself, I stare at the tantalizing glow of the Exit sign at the end of the hallway and fantasize about running away. Far, far away where no one knows my name. Maybe I should have left the country when I had the chance, before my savings disappeared into the pockets of impotent lawyers.

  Among other things—like grief and rage—what stopped me then was one of my mom’s favorite catch phrases. No matter where you go, there you are. In our childhood home, a sign with the words hung in the entryway where it couldn’t be missed. And it’s true.

  There’s no running from the past—it comes with you. Nearly three thousand miles between me and the past, and it’s with me all the goddamn time.

  “I’m sorry, we’re being so rude! We don’t mean to ignore you, we’re just super excited.”

  Grateful for the reprieve from my chaotic thoughts, I turn toward the voice. The latex women are smiling at me. Besides the dominatrix gear, they look… normal. Gorgeous, polished Los Angeles women. In latex.

  “I’m Ma
ggie, and this is Beatrix,” says the woman closest to me.

  I force a smile. “I’m London, nice to meet you.”

  “You too,” gushes Maggie. “What are you interviewing for?”

  “Bartender,” I reply, but it comes out like a question. “Is that, uh, what you guys are here for, too?”

  They giggle like schoolgirls. “Oh no,” says Maggie. “We’re auditioning.”

  Auditioning?

  As I open my mouth to ask for what, the door just past our bench opens.

  A smooth, deep voice says, “Maggie and Beatrix, come in.”

  Their immediate nervousness is palpable. I have a feeling—a bad feeling—about what they’re auditioning for. They stand up, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles in their latex, and turn toward the open door.

  My desperation for this job takes an immediate step to the back shelf. I blurt, “You don’t have to do this.”

  Hair flies as the women’s heads whip around. Instead of the embarrassment or affront I expected, they wear twinned expressions of anger.

  “Honey,” snaps Beatrix, “you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “That’s enough,” says the man, still unseen in the room beyond. “Come in, ladies.” When they hesitate, he says calmly, “Now.”

  His tone holds no edge, no emotion, but the power of it echoes down my spine.

  “Yes, sir,” the women say in unison.

  They slip into the room and the door closes.

  3

  “I think there’s been a mistake,” I tell the first person I see, who happens to be the man who answered the door of the club.

  Seated alone at the bar, he swivels on a stool to face me and blinks placid blue eyes. He looks barely legal, with an angelic face and long, white-blond hair.

  “Did you or did you not apply online for a bartending position?” His voice is smooth and bored.

  “Yes, but… I’m not—that is…” I trail off, my cheeks hot with discomfort.

  Understanding dawns on his face, humor brimming in his eyes. “You didn’t know we were a BDSM club,” he guesses.

  Well, that certainly explains the latex.

  My short laugh tapers into a groan. “Nope. Definitely not.”

  The man chuckles, suddenly looking his age. Mid-twenties or thereabouts. “Why don’t you have a seat?” he asks, nodding at the chrome and leather stool beside his. “Charlie is late as usual. She’s the one interviewing you.”

  My brain hits the pause button on my body. Frozen, I stare at him without blinking. Is this seriously what my life has come to? Interviewing for a job at a sex club? I’m out of my goddamn mind.

  Old, stale despair crackles in my belly. I’m so used to the feeling, I just accept what it signifies—I’m a complete and utter failure destined for suffering.

  The man’s focus narrows; I quickly school my expression.

  “What’s your name again?” he asks softly. “I’m Nathan, but most people call me Nate. The Doms call me Nathan, of course. They know I hate it.”

  “London Limerick,” I say, my voice tripping over my maiden name. I’m still not used to it, having been London Kirkland for four years.

  “Hi, London Limerick.” He smiles broadly. “Cool name. Ever had any interest in kink?”

  His grin is authentic and contagious, soothing my anxiety and bringing me back to the present. I can do this.

  Playing the game his teasing eyes demand, I tap my chin pensively. “Thinking… thinking… yeah, no.”

  Nate laughs again. It’s a good sound, and I’m glad I could make it happen. Something tells me he doesn’t smile often. We have that in common.

  “Probably a good thing,” he says easily. “You don’t seem very squeamish, though. I’ve already had two potential hires run out.”

  I shrug, glancing toward the back hallway again. Despite my inner chaos, the vibrations of the invisible man’s voice are still with me, a residue in my bones. The power in it was like nothing I’ve heard before, like his voice owned the very air it traveled through.

  I clear my throat and turn back to Nate. “I have a high threshold for weird. Why didn’t the job posting mention this little—important—detail?”

  “Consider the surprise as sort of like a pre-interview. The bosses don’t want bartenders to be a part of the aesthetic. Doms don’t take orders well and subs can get squirrelly when a Dom asks for a drink. But you also can’t be freaked out. Just sit, sugarplum. You’re putting a crick in my neck.”

  The thought of going home right now and facing my empty, barely furnished apartment has me plopping down on the stool next to Nate. The padding is so plush my hipbones sigh in relief. I bounce a little in sheer appreciation.

  “Pretty comfy, huh?”

  I can’t help smiling. “What are they stuffed with, magic?”

  He laughs. “Wait till you get behind the bar. You’ll never have sore feet again.”

  I resist the urge to lean up and peer over the gleaming white counter. “The website said the club opens in a few weeks?” I ask, and he nods. “What are you doing here? And by that I mean, what do you do here?”

  He laughs again, and I give myself another mental high-five. Something about Nate’s presence puts me oddly at ease, a feeling I haven’t had in a long time. Since before… everything.

  “What I’m doing here is a long-ass story,” he answers cheekily. “If you score the job and stick around, someday you can get me drunk and I’ll tell you about it.”

  I smile a little, not sure I actually want to know. I’m about to point out he still hasn’t said what his actual job is when he continues, “Go ahead and ask the million-dollar question.”

  I clear my throat and take the bait. “What kind of stuff is going to happen here? Like, visible stuff.”

  Nate smirks. “It won’t be as bad as you think. Nudity and some light play are allowed, but no hardcore kink in the public space.” He nods toward a shadowed hallway on the opposite side of the club. “Private rooms are thatta-way.”

  Behind us, a woman laughs. “Nathan, stop scaring her.”

  As I turn toward the voice, he mutters, “Told you they won’t call me Nate.”

  The woman walking toward us brings to mind Mediterranean beaches, tropical breezes, and sex. A whole lot of sweaty, gasping sex. No latex on her. Not even much skin on display. But her lush body owns a pair of casual linen pants and a flowy white blouse.

  “Scram, sweet one,” she purrs at Nate.

  I blink in surprise as Nate blushes, his chin dropping and his long hair sliding forward to shadow his face. Without another glance or word for me, he slips gracefully from the stool and walks toward the front room.

  “It’s a bit odd, isn’t it?” asks the woman as she reaches the bar. Moving between two stools, she leans an elbow on the counter and regards me from lustrous dark eyes. Shiny black hair cascades over one shoulder as she tilts her head.

  More intimidated than I’ve been in a long-ass time, I meet her gaze with effort. “You must be Charlie.”

  Full, carmine lips curve. “That’s me. Charlene Rhodes. And you’re London Limerick. I must say, I was hoping you’d be less attractive.”

  My eyes widen. “What?”

  She waves a hand laconically. “Forgive me. I certainly won’t discriminate based on your looks. Nor am I going to ask you why a woman with your professional background is looking for a bartending job. We all have pasts, do we not?”

  I have no idea if she’s referring to my education or if the statement means she Googled my name. Feeling like an idiot, I nod and flounder for words. “I’m sorry—this is a little…”

  “Unexpected?” she asks lightly. “Yes, well, before you decide to run away screaming, let me give you an idea of what we expect from our bartenders.”

  Wilting with relief, I nod. “Okay, great.”

  “Rule number one: no fraternizing with the clients. Rule number two: no fraternizing with the clients. Can you guess what rule number three is?”
>
  “Yes,” I say wryly. “Nate said you don’t want your bartenders to be ‘a part of the aesthetic.’ I can definitely say I’m not into, uh…”

  “Bondage, discipline, sadism, or masochism,” she supplies, her smile widening and suddenly predatory.

  A hot blush floods my face. “Right. That.”

  She laughs—an airy, beautiful sound that’s also somehow frightening. “You’re going to have to get used to the idea of it if you want a place here at Crossroads.”

  I look down at the gleaming bar-top.

  How desperate am I?

  Seriously fucking desperate.

  I suck in a deep breath and meet Charlie’s steady gaze. “Nate didn’t give me details. Can you tell me what type of things I’m going to see?”

  She nods. “Good question. The lifestyle certainly isn’t for everyone, and we don’t want employees who are morally repelled by the choices we make. This is a safe space—if you can’t respect the choices of our clientele, then you can’t be here.”

  My brows lift. “I have no problem with sex or people’s private choices. And that wasn’t an answer.”