Perfect Vision Page 6

  “Do you even know what you’re asking for?” he asks, voice raw and threadbare. “I’m not like Liam—like a lot of other Doms—who get off on submission and a little discomfort. I’m a sadist, London.”

  The word hits my ears, then my mind, fitting like a key into a lock. “You like giving pain,” I whisper.

  He nods curtly, gaze dropping to my mouth before flickering back up. “To be perfectly honest, if I thought you could handle it, I would’ve bruised you by now. You’re exactly my type.”

  “Bruise me,” I echo dumbly. “Whip me?”

  He nods. “Among other things. I prefer flogging.”

  “Burn me?”

  “Possibly. But I’m careful to not leave scars.”

  I swallow. “Cut me?”

  He pauses. “Bloodletting isn’t my favorite, but I’ve done it.”

  That elusive feeling of earlier is back, threading like mist through my mind and body. “Can you orgasm without inflicting pain?”

  He draws a swift breath, then coughs out a surprised laugh. “Yes, London. Being a sadist doesn’t necessarily mean I have sexual dysfunction. Is Twenty Questions over yet?” His voice is dry.

  “Almost. I have one more question.”

  “What’s that?”

  Here goes nothing.

  “Will you hurt me?”

  14

  “He kicked me out.”

  “What?” barks Nate, lunging toward me from the other side of my living room sofa. He grabs my arms, eyes comically wide. “What do you mean he kicked you out? What did he say?”

  I take another gulp of wine. “Literally nothing. He shook his head and pointed at the door. Like I was a dog or a freaking solicitor.”

  Nate eyes me like I might sprout wings or grow a tail any second. “Why are you smiling? Did he break you?”

  I laugh. “No. I’m fine. Embarrassed, obviously, but weirdly relieved.”

  “Because you unburdened yourself,” says Nate softly, his eyes revealing far more wisdom than his age should afford. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be dominated.”

  “I know. In theory, at least.” I sigh, slumping into the couch and turning my head toward him. “I didn’t use to be this way. My husband and I had a great, vanilla sex life. Do you think him dying rewired my brain?”

  It’s the closest I’ve come to admitting I feel responsible for Paul’s death, and Nate picks up on it with a sad smile. “Maybe. But I do know that sometimes submissive are born, and sometimes we’re made. In the end, we all want the same thing—freedom from the true bondage, that of our thoughts, our fears, our emotions.”

  “That’s poetic,” I muse. “Is it true?”

  Nate’s smile sheds its shadows. “As true as true can be. If you want someone to teach you the ropes, introduce you to some good Doms—”

  “I’ll pass,” I interject, softening the words with a smirk. “I’d rather keep my job, which shockingly enough I still have.”

  Nate shakes his head, his frustration evident. “I really don’t know why Cross treated you that way. I’ve only ever heard glowing praise from satisfied women about his methods. What he did—there’s no excuse for it, London. If I were braver, I’d tell Charlie what happened.”

  “Please don’t,” I say quickly. “If Cross intended to humiliate me and make me think twice about submission, he succeeded. But if he wanted me to feel shame about exploring my desires? He missed the mark by a mile. Hippie parents for the win.”

  Nate finally relaxes, swinging his feet onto my new coffee table. “Damn straight. I love your parents and I don’t even know them. Do you think they’ll adopt me?”

  I laugh. “Definitely. Nate Limerick has a nice ring to it.”

  He smiles wistfully. “It does.”

  We sit in companionable silence for a few minutes, our private thoughts dancing over soft music from nearby speakers. The sting of Cross’s rejection has lessened, due in large part to two glasses of wine and Nate’s company. Thankfully, neither of us is working tonight. I don’t know if I could have handled seeing Cross again so soon after what happened in his loft.

  “Nate?”

  “Hmm?”

  “If he’s really what he says he is—a sadist—then wouldn’t he have enjoyed humiliating me?”

  “Probably,” he replies, then hesitates. “On the other hand, it’s not black and white. If he wasn’t in a Dom headspace, maybe he was just being an asshole.”

  I’ve thought about that pretty mouth choking on my dick.

  Oh, he was in a Dom headspace, all right, but I’d bet the life I have left that he didn’t enjoy it. Not for one second. My biggest hint being his lack of arousal, even with his zipper right in front of my face.

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about Cross.”

  Blinking away my thoughts, I ask, “Anything you’ll tell me?” My voice is teasing, but my gut clenches in anticipation. I want to hear something. Anything that helps me understand him. That reconciles my sick fascination with the man—a fascination that sadly burns just as bright as it did before this afternoon.

  I want to understand why he did what he did. The impulse isn’t new to me—it’s part of what made me a great journalist—and I guess I can be grateful that I’m feeling it. An echo of my old self.

  “I want to tell you one thing in particular, but I’m not sure you’ll want to hear it. But it’s not like it’s a secret or anything.”

  I chuckle a little. “That sounds ominous.”

  “Yeah, kinda.” He fights a private war with his conscience, then grabs my free hand. “You know how I mentioned you look kind of like his ex?”

  I nod.

  “Well… that ex was his wife.”

  “Cross was married?” I ask stupidly.

  Nate nods. “I’ve never seen a man so completely besotted in my life. Obsessed, even. She hung the moon and stars in his eyes.”

  I eye him carefully. “Why do you sound bitter?”

  “Because she used him. Baited him, trapped him, and wrecked him.”

  I stare at him blankly. “Wow. It’s really hard to imagine anyone doing that to Cross.”

  Nate sighs. “Ashley was good, I’ll give her that. Played submissive perfectly. It wasn’t until they were married for a year that she dropped the act. Refused to let him top her anymore. I don’t know all the details, but as you know, I’m good at listening and observing. She waged some serious psychological warfare. Made him think he was a monster. Sick. Threatened to tell people he was abusive if he didn’t seek ‘sexual rehabilitation.’ He did everything she asked, and she still left him in the end.”

  “Good God,” I whisper. “Why would she do all that? For what possible reason?”

  Nate’s brows lift. “Haven’t you ever Googled him?”

  I shake my head.

  “Oh, sugarplum, you’re seriously the cutest. Cross is ex-Special Forces. Basically GI Joe. Left the military ten years ago and founded Titan Security.”

  My jaw drops. “The international private defense company?”

  He nods. “Yep. Cross started it because he wanted the freedom to help struggling governments and nations during crises without dealing with miles of red tape.”

  “What happened?”

  “His wife happened. His brother David runs the company now, and he turned it into what it is today—a business that capitalizes on war. And shitting on Cross’s dream wasn’t even the worst thing David did. Guess who he married after the divorce went through and Cross was deemed unstable by the Board of Directors?”

  My jaw dislocates. “Shut the fuck up. His brother married his ex-wife? Was it a whole setup to push him out of the company?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know, but what does your journalistic spidey sense tell you?”

  I sink back into the couch, stunned and deflated. “That Cross’s dislike of me suddenly makes more sense. Do I really look like her?”

  “Honestly?”

  “Yes, honestly!”

  H
e grins. “You’re way hotter.”

  That night as I lie in bed, I think of Dominic and my heart hurts for him. I can’t imagine the pain he must have felt having someone he loved—someone he married—betray him so profoundly.

  Yes, I’m still embarrassed and angry at the way he treated me, the undeserving lesson he taught me—to be careful what I wish for. But if I’ve learned anything in the last year and a half, it’s the truth is rarely cut and dry. People are rarely black and white, either. Not one or even two-dimensional, but living, breathing channels of energy and emotion, their experiences strung together, creating a design of identity more complex than the mind can comprehend.

  In a weird way, knowing what I now know about Dominic’s past makes me feel a kinship with him. We both had our dreams ripped away by others.

  As I drift to sleep, I allow myself a few minutes to think of Paul. To appreciate the love he gave me, and the short but happy life we had together. We had our ups and downs like any couple, but at the end of the day, our love for each other was unconditional. He would have never betrayed me as Dominic’s wife did him.

  Paul and I married at nineteen, just four months after meeting at NYU. My parents were supportive. His were not. Old Money from Greenwich, Connecticut, they couldn’t fathom their son marrying a girl from Podunk, upstate New York. Nor did they approve of Paul’s decision to drop out of college and enter the Police Academy. Maybe that’s why I wholeheartedly approved, having been subtly conditioned toward rebellion against social norms by my eccentric parents. Who the fuck knows.

  I was so young. Stupid. Full of aspirations about doing good in the world. Paul was terminally optimistic about his career path. Arresting criminals. Making the world a safer place. As disapproving as his parents were, they nevertheless pulled strings. Big strings. Their son wasn’t going to be a run-of-the-mill beat cop if they could help it.

  Right before Paul planned to officially withdraw from NYU, he begrudgingly accepted an offer from his father to play golf. It was no accident that they were joined by Rudolph Schultz, head of the New York branch of Homeland Security. Those eighteen holes would change Paul’s life—our lives—forever.

  Despite their role in altering his career trajectory, Paul’s parents still blame me for his death. Most of the time, I believe I deserve their loathing. But what they don’t know is how frightened I was when Paul came home that day full of bright-eyed passion about going after terrorists, drug cartels, and sex traffickers as an undercover ICE agent working with Homeland Security.

  In their quest for Paul’s long-term stature, his parents never grasped one of the fundamental facets of his personality. Specifically the focus—or limitation, in their eyes—of his ambition. Paul didn’t want to sit behind a big desk and issue orders, or stand behind a microphone and spew rhetoric to the masses. He wanted action. To be in the middle of events. To exact real change.

  I couldn’t stop him. My fear didn’t sway him. But over the years, while he completed his degree and started his training, my trepidation faded. I’d found my own trajectory in studying Journalism. I had my own plans. And for a while, we were happy. Paul’s parents made sure he got the job he wanted, working in New York, and I landed my own dream job at the New York Independent, a small newspaper that specialized in investigative journalism.

  We were both bound to our separate passions and each other, wearing matching cement boots we couldn’t feel. The only difference is Paul’s life ended and I’m still breathing.

  But I’m still underwater, in the murky dark.

  15

  “You have two choices.”

  The rough, accented voice jars me from the empty space between sleep and waking. My head lifts defiantly, my gaze narrowing on the face of the man crouched before me. He’s at the top of the food chain of guards. I think of him as Cinder because it looks like someone once hit him in the face with a cinderblock.

  “No, thanks,” I rasp.

  He grins, eyes flat and pitiless. “I’m going to tell you your options, then let you think about it for twenty-four hours.” A blunt fingertip taps my nose. I recoil, which only makes him laugh. “First option is hot shower, massage, food, a bed. Nice dress, pretty heels, makeup, the works. You play nice and get rewarded. Find a high-roller to buy you, make us a pretty penny. You live a glamorous life keeping him happy.”

  “Never,” I seethe.

  “Tut-tut. Wait for me to finish. You might think differently when you hear the alternative.”

  Beside me, the teenager shifts subtly away, responding to the rising menace in his voice. She shushes the toddler when she moans. To my relief, he doesn’t look at them.

  “What’s Option B?”

  His false smile vanishes. “I make you choose one of your companions here. My men and I—we rape her, then kill her in front of everyone.”

  Blackness swarms on the edges of my vision. I suck in air past a hammering heart. Around me, women shudder and cower together. Someone sobs.

  “No,” I gasp.

  He rises in a smooth pulse of muscle. “Like I said, you have a choice. Twenty-four hours, little shlyukha.”

  Little whore.

  A minute later, a door slams and a heavy lock slides closed. The space erupts in chatter, a mixture of languages from English to Spanish to Chinese to Russian. Eyes watch me. Hopeful eyes. Fearful eyes.

  “What are you going to do?”

  They’re the first words the teenager has spoken, to me or anyone else. Her eyes—unblinking, empty—fix on my face.

  “Don’t worry,” I whisper.

  She blinks and looks away.

  16

  I’m not five steps into Crossroads the next evening when I’m summoned to Charlie’s office. The messenger is Steph, and from her expression I surmise I’m not about to be offered a raise. After an encouraging squeeze of my arm, she wishes me luck and disappears.

  As I walk toward the back hallway—and potentially my last paycheck—I can’t summon remorse. Sure, my impulsivity yesterday might have gotten me canned, might force me to move if I can’t find another job by the end of the week, but I still don’t regret what happened. That feeling, for brief minutes, of relief. Or as Nate called it, freedom from inner-bondage.

  I remind myself that working at a sex club was never my career of choice, but rather a Band-Aid on bills until I could figure out how the fuck to live again. I’m not there yet—don’t know if it’s even possible—but Crossroads can’t be the last house on the block for me. Whatever happens right now, I’m not giving up. No way in hell I’m going back to New York.

  In the hallway, I glance past Charlie’s door to the next, wondering if Cross is in his office right now. If he knows what’s happening or feels guilty. Then I concede that it’s probably better this way—if he apologized, it would make everything harder. My emotions where he’s concerned are tangled up enough already.

  I knock and Charlie calls, “Come in!”

  Her office couldn’t be more different from her partner’s, the decor matching the theme of the club itself—all white, gold, and silver. Silk tapestries, a delicate gold chandelier, and a gleaming glass and metal desk opposite plush floor cushions. It’s a bright, serene, harem-esque cave perfectly suited for making visitors feel welcome. A gilded trap to trick the unsuspecting into letting their guards down. But Charlie isn’t nearly as scary as she thinks she is.

  I’ve been in a real predator’s trap.

  My mind flashes back to a room many times the size of this one, with thousand-dollar rugs and custom furniture. With open windows letting in the mingled scent of roses and jasmine along with brilliant natural light. Priceless artworks. An entire wall lined with books. A place of culture and refinement. A place I first loved, then loathed.

  Forcing the foul memory from my mind, I close the door and face Charlie. “You wanted to see me?” I do my best to sound normal, not like I just had a flashback that made my skin crawl and armpits damp. I do my breathing exercise, imagining my lungs are g
ills.

  I’m okay.

  Charlie, sitting behind her desk, looks up from some paperwork. She has her poker face on, but her eyes are tight at the corners. She’s either too focused to notice my disquiet, or I’m getting better at hiding it.

  “Have a seat, London.”

  I glance at the floor pillows. “I’m okay standing, thanks. What’s up?”

  Her lips pinch. “I heard a rumor. A very distressing rumor that you’ve broken one of the cardinal rules of Crossroads. Do you remember rules one through three?”

  I wilt inside. There goes my job. “No fraternizing with the clients.”

  She cocks her head. “You’re not going to deny it?”

  I shrug. “What would be the point? I’m assuming Cross told you his version of what happened.”

  Her brows skyrocket. “What does Dominic have to do with this?”

  My brain slips sideways. “What? What are you talking about?”

  Charlie sits forward, disturbing papers. A pen clatters to the floor. “I’m talking about Liam Rourke. Now tell me what the hell happened with Dominic.” Her voice is clipped and icy, the tip of an iceberg hiding miles of ruin-your-vacation feelings.

  I just stepped into a shit-pile of my own making.

  “Uhh—”

  Charlie’s gaze flies over my shoulder a moment before a dark voice says, “Nothing happened. She’s likely referring to when I interrupted them and hauled her out of there for a reprimand. Which you know, since you watched the video feeds.”

  Oh my God. The new security cameras. Nate and I are officially idiots.

  “Forgot about those, did you?” Cross murmurs for my ears. His voice is closer than before, though I might be imagining the heat of his body on my spine.

  Charlie’s eyes narrow, glittering as they veer between me and the man I haven’t turned to look at. I can barely keep my breathing under control as it is. The last thing I need is to see his eyes, his stupidly perfect face.