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  She laughs delightedly. “Phase two of your interview begins in fifteen minutes. We’re having a small, private party and you’ll be serving drinks. Take a few minutes to acquaint yourself with the bar—that is, if you’d like to stay?”

  The challenge in her eyes is unmistakable. I wonder if she knows that being underestimated is nothing new to me. In fact, it’s my Ace in the Hole.

  I stand and toss my low ponytail over my shoulder. “What terms of address do I use?”

  Another small, private smile crosses her lips. “Sir or madam.”

  “And people like Nate?”

  “Call them whatever you want.”

  4

  “Club soda, please,” whispers the woman opposite me. All I can see of her is the top of her head, as her eyes are trained on the floor.

  “Coming right up,” I tell her, injecting cheer into my voice.

  The last twenty minutes have stacked mindfuck on top of mindfuck. Not five minutes ago, I saw the same woman before me being fingered to an orgasm by a man holding her leash.

  At this point, my face feels sunburned from a permanent blush. But by the same token, I understand why this is a necessary part of the interview. Charlie needs to see if I can handle being exposed to live kink. Little does she know I grew up in a family where building teepees for the purpose of full-moon orgies wasn’t uncommon.

  Probably the only belief of my hippie parents that rubbed off on me is a lack of shame about sex. That, and an understanding of the vast range of human sexual proclivities. Once, my sister and I came home from school to find a neighborhood couple experimenting with Pony Play in the backyard while our parents cheered them on. We’d merely rolled our eyes and started on homework.

  But knowing about different kinks doesn’t mean I’m unaffected by seeing them in person. A web search on bondage doesn’t really compare to seeing a living, breathing man walking around in nipple clamps, a ball-gag, and ass-less chaps. At least what I told Nate is true—I have a high threshold for weird.

  Handing the woman her club soda, I glance across the club at Nate. Fully clothed but blindfolded, he’s kneeling, unmoving, next to Charlie’s legs. She doesn’t seem to be aware of him as she sips red wine and chats with a man whose face I can’t see.

  Apparently mine isn’t the only interview with phases—nearby, Maggie and Beatrix are sprawled to either side of a petite redhead who’s smoking a cigar like a boss. At the women’s feet sit two men, naked but for black briefs. As I watch, a short whip flies and cracks against one of the men’s backs.

  I flinch.

  “You’ll have to do better than that.”

  I freeze at the sound of that voice. Slow and smooth. Richly textured and faintly amused. My eyes close, and in the millisecond of darkness, I hope against hope that he’s short, fat, and balding.

  Opening my eyes, I turn toward the stretch of bar on my right. My newest patron occupies the middle stool, and of course, he’s built like a Greek god. Thick dark hair and glorious olive skin, wearing a black button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up over powerful forearms. Full lips. High, exotic cheekbones. Almond-shaped brown eyes and a jaw I’d be happy to sit on. Repeatedly.

  The thought startles me, freezing me in place. Beneath the surprise, there’s relief mixed with guilt. Underneath everything, I’m still a woman. Still alive. But even though my husband has been gone for over a year, it still feels a bit like betrayal.

  When the man’s brows lift, I realize I’ve been staring at him far past the point of propriety. At least my cheeks can’t get any redder.

  I plaster a smile on my face. “What can I get you?”

  “Whiskey Sour.”

  I make the drink, doing my best to ignore the weight of his gaze following my movements. When I place the cocktail in front of him, he doesn’t smile or say thank you before lifting it to his lips and taking a sip. A moment later, he sets the glass down.

  “Not the best I’ve tasted.”

  Ew. What a dick.

  “Would you like me to make another?”

  “No. I’d like you to get a job somewhere else.”

  My jaw drops; my thoughts stall. “Excuse me?” I gasp.

  “I don’t think you’re hard of hearing, kitten. If you can’t handle watching a love tap from a whip, there’s no way you’ll be able to handle working here.”

  Kitten? Really?

  His demeaning moniker jumpstarts an ego I didn’t know still existed inside me. There was a time when I didn’t take shit from anyone, when I was respected in high circles, when no one would have spoken to me like this.

  My smile sharp and humorless now, I step forward until my hips meet the lower counter. “You have no idea what I can and can’t handle,” I say through my teeth. “I don’t know who you are, or what your problem is, but I flinched because I was surprised. That’s it.”

  His features twitch, dark eyes glinting dangerously. “Not repulsed?”

  “Nope.”

  “Ah.” His gaze flickers to my lower half, concealed by the bar between us. When he looks up, a brow is cocked knowingly. “You’re wet, aren’t you, kitten?”

  My brain short-circuits. Three seconds later, his empty cocktail glass is in my hand, whiskey dripping down his astonished face.

  The thick, sudden silence in the club is broken by Charlie’s unrestrained laughter. She lifts her wine glass in my direction.

  “London, my dear, you’re hired!”

  Horrified and embarrassed—and dementedly satisfied by his reaction—I grab a nearby hand towel and toss it on the bar. Mr. Tight Ass snatches it and wipes his face. Then, propping his elbows on the counter, he fixes me with a stare that would wither a lesser woman. Or man. Or anyone who isn’t fueled by crazy, like I am.

  Churning with unfamiliar, frenetic energy, I smile in the way I know brings out my dimples. “Can I get you another drink?”

  Charlie slides onto the stool beside his, grinning as she swipes a finger down his cheek. “Aw, poor baby is in a bad mood today. Want me to take care of you?”

  Tight Ass glances at her. For a second, his expression alters. Becomes real. Human. Tired and stressed. And methinks Charlie might have hit the nail on the head—I’m no expert, having slept with one man in my life, but he seems wound up. In need of a release. Maybe Maggie and Beatrix’s audition didn’t have a happy ending, after all.

  Feeling like a voyeur in their private moment, I meander to the other end of the bar. I don’t have any customers at the moment, so I wipe down the already sparkling counters.

  “I meant it, London,” calls Charlie. “The job is yours if you want it.”

  I glance between her sensual smile and the man’s tight-lipped frown. Dragging my gaze to his midnight eyes, I ask, “Are we going to have a problem?”

  To my shock, he smiles. Just a little curve of his mouth, but my stomach tingles alarmingly.

  “Undoubtedly.”

  5

  Charlie slaps his arm. “No fraternizing.”

  As his eyes veer away from my face, I can’t repress a shiver. Man, he’s intense. I can just as easily see him commanding a boardroom as negotiating hostage situations. Basically doing anything that includes telling people what to do.

  “Not tempted,” he says mildly.

  Ouch, asshole.

  He reaches out and drags his thumb over Charlie’s lower lip. “You, on the other hand… feel like being topped tonight?”

  The ballsy Charlie blinks out like a light. Her chin lowers, her posture softening until she radiates compliance. I stare raptly at them, the towel forgotten in my hand.

  “I do, sir,” she whispers.

  He hums in satisfaction, the vibration tightening my nipples. And Charlie’s, I notice.

  “Good. Let’s christen Room Three. I’ll be with you shortly.”

  She nods and slips off the stool, then walks swiftly across the club toward the hallway Nate pointed out earlier. She disappears inside. The party goes on, the fifteen or so people drin
king, chatting, and laughing. I should really see if anyone needs another drink, but my feet are glued to the floor.

  “What’s your name?” asks the voice.

  He’s left his stool and walked around the bar to where I’m standing. I can now see the rest of him, which looks just as perfect as his upper half.

  I clear my throat. “London Limerick.”

  He blinks in surprise—most people do. I stopped keeping track years ago of the number of times people have asked me if I’m a stripper. I can’t tell what Tight Ass is thinking, but it isn’t what I look like spinning on a pole.

  “I still don’t want you working here.”

  I nod. “Duly noted. Too bad it’s not up to you.”

  Another snarly half-smile. This time, the tingles are a lot lower than my stomach. Almost, I wish I were Charlie.

  Almost.

  I’m actually grateful he’s a dickhead.

  “Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong,” he murmurs. “Since you’re the first person to ever throw a drink in my face, I’ll give you my name for free. Dominic Cross.”

  It takes a second to sink in.

  Dominic Cross—Charlie Rhodes.

  Crossroads.

  Damn.

  Given that he was auditioning the Latex Twins, I figured he was an entertainment manager or something. Plus, Charlie made it seem like his authority didn’t extend to me.

  That’s what I get for assuming anything.

  I swallow hard. “You’re one of the owners.”

  “I am.” He raps knuckles on the counter between us. “Your sixty-day probation starts now. If you fuck up, you’re fired.”

  Without waiting for a response, he walks away.

  “Are you at least going to tell me what defines a fuck-up?” I call after him.

  The smile he throws over his shoulder is nothing short of lethal. “No. I’ll enjoy watching you squirm.”

  Double damn.

  I watch his broad back as he weaves through the tables toward the far door. Even after it closes behind him, I still feel the electric current of his presence. If Charlie is sex on legs, Dominic is sexual napalm. Thinking of what they’re about to engage in, my already warm face goes supernova.

  Nate appears at the bar, sans blindfold. Correctly interpreting my expression, he says brightly, “Sorry, but Mr. Cross doesn’t do vanilla.”

  I don’t bother with denial; pretty sure he caught me staring at Dominic Cross’s ass and drooling. Frankly, I could kiss the bastard just for that. For the reminder that I’m still kicking.

  “What does he do?” I ask curiously.

  “He’s a strictly hetero Dominant, so I haven’t had the pleasure—sadly. He keeps his rep on the down-low, but bondage is his thing.”

  “Like handcuffs and stuff?”

  Nate laughs. “You’re so cute. Bring me a Gin and Tonic and I’ll corrupt your mind.”

  I laugh—surprisingly easily—and start his drink. “A little late for that, but I’m all ears.”

  As I serve him, I notice the club emptying into the distant hallway. Nate notices my stare. “Showtime.”

  I put two and two together. “Test drives for the rooms in the back, huh?”

  He grins. “Exactly.”

  As he sips his cocktail, I study his calm face. “Are you bummed you’re not back there?”

  His eyes widen briefly, then he barks a laugh. “We’re going to be great friends, sugarplum. You say what you think. Charlie and Dominic need someone like you around.”

  I roll my eyes to disguise the swell of relief his words bring. I did it. I got the job. “I’m what—one of ten bartenders they plan to hire?”

  He shrugs. “I saw your résumé. Sure, the bosses are smart, but they don’t have master’s degrees. Sooner or later they’re going to angle for free advice. Pro tip: make them pay.”

  I chuckle to hide my wince. My Master’s in Journalism might as well be used to roll the mother of all joints. And I highly doubt Charlie or Dominic need advice on how to spin a story or write an exposé.

  Ignoring Nate’s narrowed gaze, I begin stacking tumblers and tossing used lemon wedges. “You dodged my question, Nathan.”

  He makes a sour face. “If you never call me that again, I’ll tell you.”

  I grin. “Deal.”

  He passes me his empty glass. “I’m not bummed, no. I’m a bottom who likes being topped by both men and women, but I don’t have a commitment to a single Dom. Charlie and I mess around occasionally.” He shrugs. “I wasn’t really in the mood tonight, anyway. Pour yourself a drink, London. You’re off the clock.”

  The club is empty. Even the Latex Twins are gone, engaging in whatever fun is being had in the private rooms. With a mental shrug, I make myself a Jack and Coke with a splash of lime, then lean a hip on the counter.

  “So why did Dominic hate me on sight?”

  Nate messes with his hair, winding it in a knot and securing it with a band from his wrist. From his sudden fidgeting and shuttered expression, I realize the answer to my question isn’t a simple one.

  “Does he have some weird prejudice against people not into BDSM?”

  Nate finally lowers his hands to the bar and meets my gaze. “First, don’t call him Dominic, only sir, Mr. Cross, Cross, or Master Dominic. Second, there’s a reason he doesn’t like you, but I can’t talk about it. Just know it’s not about you, exactly.” He waves a hand toward my face. “It’s all… that. The green eyes and blond hair thing.”

  I laugh a little. “Ignoring the ridiculousness of his approved monikers, what are you saying? Do I look like one of his exes or something?” When he just stares at me unblinking, I groan. “Fabulous. No offense, Nate, but if I didn’t need this job, I’d never tolerate that asshole.”

  “Seems to me you didn’t tolerate him,” he says with a smirk. “Even though I was blindfolded when you doused him, it’s already my number one favorite moment of our friendship.”

  Chuckling, I finish my drink, toss the ice, and load the glass with the other used ones. “Okay, new friend, why don’t you help me clean up the mess out there and tell me how the hell I’m supposed to know when to come back, seeing as how my bosses have disappeared for some freaky sex.”

  Nate smiles and grabs the empty tray I’ve propped on the bar. “I’ll handle clean-up tonight. Why don’t you go grab your purse and meet me in the front room? I’ll pull up the training schedule and figure out when you’re back.”

  “Training?” I echo at his back.

  “Oh yes,” he says drolly. “You were thrown in the water tonight to see if you could swim. Now that they know you can, they’re going to release the sharks.”

  “Holy metaphor, batman,” I mutter.

  “I heard that!”

  6

  Halfway into my drive home, loneliness hits. As strange and shocking as my evening was, it was wholly consuming. For brief moments, I’d felt seen. A part of my own life. Now, the truth rises up to swallow me. This is my reality—solitude no longer a choice but a necessity.

  Work to pay bills and eat.

  Sleep and survive the nightmares.

  My recent glimpse of color only magnifies the empty, ashen landscape in which I exist. It hurts like a limb waking up from sleep. Sharp and fiery. The reminder that I used to be free to feel whatever I wanted, express my truth, and follow my heart. Although I’m alive, I’m not free, bound forever in my prison of sorrow and guilt.

  The echoes of my laughter with Nate tonight find and clash with younger, freer sounds of my childhood. I think of my sister, Paris, and the hellions we were as teenagers. The late-night, whispered conversations. Sneaking out to parties—not because our parents would care, necessarily, but because of the thrill. That elusive, seducing feel of danger.

  Floating in memories that for once aren’t painful, I use my car’s Bluetooth to dial my sister.

  It’s close to midnight—3 a.m. her time—but she answers anyway. Just like she always does.

  “London? Wha
t’s wrong?”

  “Relax, sis. Nothing’s on fire.” I hear soft music in the background, but still ask, “Did I wake you?”

  “I wish.”

  “Damning the Man is hard work, huh?”

  She chuckles. “Something like that.”

  Paris only sleeps a few hours a night when she’s working on a case. A defense attorney with a firm back East, she specializes in class action and civil liberties lawsuits. If memory serves, right now she’s defending several rural families whose well-water was contaminated by a nearby factory. The suits at the factory, of course, are denying culpability.

  The fact that horrible shit happens to people all the time—and is mostly ignored—is why Paris pursued Law. She’s lucky enough to work for a firm that believes in her. Or rather, they believe in her track record of winning insane settlement amounts. But I’m terminally cynical.

  A kettle whistles on her end. We don’t speak as she prepares a cup of tea. As I listen and envision my sister, warmth and gratitude spread through me. We’ve had our challenges, but she’s the one sane thing in my world.

  “I’m worried about you,” Paris says finally, her voice thin and whispery. I imagine her words flattened and eroded by the space between us. There are 2797 miles between Los Angeles and New York.

  I clench my teeth, focusing on taking a deep breath. The kind that expands the bottom of your rib cage like wings. For a few seconds, my body soars in its very own oxygen sky. This particular technique is the only useful tool my former therapist gave me.

  I clear my throat. Choke on the emptiness there. What possible words can I offer? Nothing will reassure her, because she’s right to worry. Even I don’t know who I am anymore, what I’m doing, how I’m living and breathing.

  “I’m okay,” I finally say.

  “Did you find a therapist yet?”

  “Still looking,” I lie, then change the subject. “How’s Suzie?”

  “She’s great. Yesterday she said fuck in her kindergarten class and came home with a nice note from the teacher. We’re so proud.”