Devastated Page 9

  Two men emerged from behind the curtains. One wore jeans and a cowboy hat. The other wore nothing at all except for a collar about his neck.

  “Is that Marissa?” the naked one asked, coming up to them. “Girl, I haven’t seen you in a while.”

  Marissa returned a small smile. “Busy, I guess.”

  The man furrowed his brow. “How can you be too busy for The Lair? That’s a travesty. And is that a white wristband? I’ve never seen you wear a white one before.”

  “I’m showing a friend around,” Marissa said before introducing Kimani to Matthew, who introduced his partner, Caleb. They shook hands as casually as if they were meeting at a coffee shop.

  “Well, I hope your friend lets you get your usual red wristband before the night’s over,” Matthew said with a wink before he and Caleb went on their way.

  “What do the red wristbands mean?” Kimani asked.

  “It means you’re hardcore and seeking a partner.”

  “What if you’re not seeking a partner?”

  “Either you have a white wristband or you have a collar. Collars mean you’re taken.”

  They finished their water. Marissa got a few gummy bears before declaring that she was ready to proceed.

  They stepped behind the curtains and were instantly greeted by the sight of three women in the center of the room. The Mistress from the sideboard sat on a Victorian sofa, her legs spread wide open to accommodate a brunette going to town on her. A young blond suckled her breasts.

  Warmth crept up Kimani’s cheeks. Though she had witnessed Ryan going down on Claire on Jake’s boat, she still wasn’t that used to seeing other people engaged in sex, up close and in person. Looking past the trio of women, she took in several alcoves surrounding more than half the room. The alcoves each had curtains, providing the occupants privacy if they so choose. The occupants in the right corner alcove had chosen to kept their curtains open. In it, a dominatrix flogged a tall and lanky male. Kimani noticed the woman used a flogger with wide falls, not unlike the one Ben had used on her. She had actually liked the feel of the flogger and wondered if she could enjoy the implement no matter who wielded it.

  Seeing another sideboard with water and gummy bears, and needing something to do besides gawk, Kimani and Marissa went over and helped themselves to more water.

  “Do you opt for new partners each time?” Kimani asked.

  “Not always,” Marissa replied. “I had a steady partner for a while, but he moved to—no, there he is!”

  Kimani followed Marissa’s gaze to a tan, dark-haired young man examining the different floggers at a counter. As if he felt their gazes, he turned around. It took him a few seconds in the dim lighting but then recognition seemed to dawn. Setting down the flogger he held, he walked over.

  “Marissa,” he greeted warmly.

  “Miguel,” she replied, returning a shy smile. “I thought you were in San Diego?”

  “I moved back. The startup wasn’t working out, but I got a job offer here.”

  “Miguel, this is my roommate, Kimani. It’s her first time, so I’m playing tour guide.”

  They shook hands.

  “So you’re not playing?” Miguel asked, eying Marissa’s white wristband.

  Marissa shook her head. “Not tonight.”

  Just then, a sexy young redhead dressed in a skintight cocktail dress appeared before them. “Ladies.”

  She presented a silver tray with an envelope on it. With a quizzical look, Marissa took the enveloped and opened it. Her mouth dropped open as she read the card inside.

  “It’s an invitation to the Upper Balcony!” she gasped.

  Miguel looked surprised. “I didn’t know one could get invited to the Upper Balcony.”

  “Neither did I.”

  “Someone must like you two.”

  Marissa turned to the redhead. “Who’s it from?”

  “I can’t reveal the names of the members unless they wish to be known,” replied the redhead.

  “Why do they want to invite us?” Kimani asked, wanting to add, And what are they expecting?

  “I haven’t been told.”

  Marissa held the card to her chest. “I’ve always wanted to see what the Upper Balcony was like.”

  “Then what are you waiting for?” Miguel encouraged.

  Marissa asked the redhead, “Do you think we could extend the invitation to include Miguel?”

  “I’ll have to check,” replied the redhead.

  “I so want to know who the invitation is from!” Marissa said while they waited for the redhead to return with an answer.

  “Hopefully not a creep,” Kimani replied, but then she remembered the woman at the entrance. Women can be creeps, too, she reminded herself.

  “I think VIP members are heavily vetted and screened,” Miguel said. “At least, that’s what I’ve been told.”

  Kimani looked over at Marissa, “You can never be too sure these days.”

  “I don’t expect to do anything in the Upper Balcony,” Marissa said. “I just want to see what it’s like.”

  “I don’t know. We have no idea who this person is.”

  “I’m not so worried. There are bouncers everywhere in case anyone gets out of hand.”

  Marissa gestured to the far corner, and that’s when Kimani noticed a muscled man in the shadows.

  “Still, I’ve had enough surprises to last me a lifetime.”

  Marissa sighed. “Yeah, you’re right. Maybe we should play it safe.”

  Miguel looked stunned. “Are you saying you’re going to pass up an invitation to the Upper Balcony? It’s only the most exclusive BDSM spot in the city—maybe the whole state!”

  Marissa bit her bottom lip. She looked at Kimani. “What should I do?”

  The redhead returned with an answer. “The gentleman is invited as well on one condition.”

  Surprise, Kimani thought wryly to herself. She didn’t want to be a wet blanket, but after what she and Marissa had been through, it was better to be safe than sorry.

  The redhead looked at Kimani. “The member would like you to wait in the Silk Room. Alone.”

  Double surprise. Kimani had guessed the woman at the entrance was more interested in Marissa, but maybe she had thought wrong. Still, she balked, “No way I’m going to be locked alone in a room with a stranger.”

  “There are no doors and locks at The Lair,” the redhead said. “Only curtains. And our security is always on hand. Our visitors forego some privacy, but we prioritize safety.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Miguel said. “You should enjoy your invitation the way you want it.”

  Marissa frowned. “I don’t know...maybe it’s not such a big deal to go to the Upper Balcony.”

  “Not a big deal?” Miguel exclaimed. “Marissa, I’m excited you get to go. It’ll be the highlight of my night to hear you tell me all about it.”

  “But I don’t want Kimani to—”

  “I’ll go,” Kimani blurted, not wanting to ruin what could be Marissa’s only chance to see the Upper Balcony. “But I want a bouncer stationed right outside this Silk Room.”

  But what if the bouncer couldn’t be trusted? What if this mysterious Upper Balcony member slipped the bouncer some money not to see or hear anything? If it was the woman from the entrance, Kimani felt like she could take the woman on if needed, but not if the woman had help.

  Get a grip, Kimani, and stop being so paranoid.

  “How about we check in on you every ten minutes?” Miguel offered.

  Kimani drew in a long breath. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

  Marissa squealed and jumped up and down. Kimani was glad she could make Marissa happy. She shouldn’t let what had happened with the Scarlet Auction ruin opportunities like these.

  Nevertheless, as they followed the redhead through the curtains toward the entrance where the stairs were, she couldn’t shake her feeling of unease.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Silk upholstery on the divan and
even silk wallpaper adorned the Silk Room, dimly lit with golden candelabras and wall sconces. Above the marble fireplace hung a wide life-size painting of a naked woman reclined upon a sofa. With a large bed, lavishly adorned with silk linen beneath a silk canopy, the room looked fit for a luxury bed and breakfast, and not at all what Kimani had expected to find in a BDSM club.

  Weary of the bed, Kimani chose to situate herself as far from it as possible and stay near the entrance/exit. She thought once more of the woman whom she had seen go up the stairs earlier. If the woman was the one who’d invited them, was she interested in Kimani? Would the woman see and honor the white wristband or would she try to push her luck?

  “May I offer you some refreshment?” the redhead asked. “We have water, soda, tea and lemonade.”

  “No alcohol?” Kimani asked, surprised.

  “We’ve always been dry. Alcohol is too risky, especially in an establishment like ours.”

  “I respect that. I’ll take a glass of water, thank you.”

  “Still or sparkling?”

  “Still.”

  “We have cucumber- and blackberry-infused water, or strawberry and lemon.”

  “Strawberry and lemon sounds great.”

  After the redhead left through the curtained doorway, Kimani took a closer look at the furnishings about the room. Taking a few steps toward a dresser against the nearest wall, she opened one of the drawers, wondering why this room existed in a BDSM club.

  Sure enough, her answer lie in the “jewelry” resting in velvet compartments of the first drawer: nipple clamps, collars, and gags of all kinds. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw one particularly uncomfortable-looking gag. She knew what the ball gag was like—she had worn one twice for Ben. But the one lying in the drawer beside a traditional ball gag had a metal ring with metal spokes coming out of it. It looked almost like a medical device. She picked it up and held it closer to the nearest wall sconce to study it. Maybe it wasn’t intended for the mouth?

  “It’s a spider gag.”

  Her heartbeat vanished, leaving her momentarily without a pulse.

  Dropping the gag into the drawer, she turned around to confirm the voice she recognized. Her heartbeat returned, palpitating quickly. It wasn’t the woman she had seen earlier.

  It was Ben.

  He stood in partial shadow at the threshold, but she found the whites of his eyes, and the penetration of his stare weakened her legs. Tearing herself away from his gaze, she saw that he wore a tight-fitting shirt and slim jeans that would have made her mouth water if she didn’t feel trapped all of a sudden.

  She shouldn’t have moved away from the entry. Door or no door, it would be hard to escape.

  But I was able to play him even, she recalled of their brief one-on-one basketball on the patio of his penthouse.

  Nevertheless, it would be hard to get around him.

  Stop being such a wuss. You’re an adult. If he wants to give you a hard time, you can take it.

  She squared her shoulders, a movement that did not seem to escape his notice. The guy saw everything, at least everything external.

  “I take it you’ve never tried one,” he said.

  “What? That creepy-looking gag thing?” she returned, glad she could eke out a sentence without sounding too discombobulated by his presence.

  “Yes. The spider gag.” His voice was low and calm, devoid of emotion for now.

  She shook her head. “Hell no.”

  “Too bad.”

  The redhead knocked upon the doorframe. “Your beverages.”

  “You can set them down,” Ben replied without taking his gaze off Kimani.

  The redhead entered, set the tray with the glass of water and a mug of something hot on a coffee table beside the divan, and left without further word. Silence followed until Ben held out his hand toward the divan, inviting her to sit or help herself to the water.

  Kimani hesitated. The divan took her farther from the entry. But what the hell was she so afraid of? A lecture or tongue lashing for what she had done? She was prepared to own up to what had happened and apologize—two or three times if warranted. Then maybe she could finally get over him.

  She walked over to the divan and picked up her glass of water. She drank it but didn’t taste the infusion of strawberry and lemon. Her taste buds had somehow gone offline as her body prepared for fight or flight.

  “I didn’t know you were a member here,” she commented when she couldn’t take the silence any longer.

  “That makes two of us.”

  “I’m not a member. I’m just...here with a friend.”

  His gaze dropped briefly to her wristbands. “You’re not here to play?”

  The question “are you?” nearly left her mouth, but she didn’t want to engage in small talk. She wanted to cut to the chase and get things over with.

  “I sent you a letter,” she said. “I don’t know if you ever got it.”

  “I got it.”

  His tone was a little cold, and she guessed her letter hadn’t made much of an impact on him.

  “I’m sorry,” she continued, “really, really sorry. I didn’t mean for the FPPC investigation to happen. I like Gordon. I’d vote for him if I could.”

  “And why should that matter?” There was bite in his tone.

  She drew in a fortifying breath. “Look, I don’t blame you if you hate me for what I did. Your uncle seems to have forgiven me—”

  “I haven’t.”

  It was a slap in the face, but it had the effect of increasing her nerve. She lifted her chin. “Why not?”

  Several beats of silence passed before he said, “Maybe I don’t want to. Or maybe I’m just not a forgiving guy.”

  She let his words sink in. Okay. She understood that. Some people required more time to forgive. Some never forgave. A part of her yearned to delve into a discussion of forgiveness, as they’d once had. But if he wasn’t ready to forgive her, what was the purpose of inviting her up here?

  “You spent the day walking Havenscourt.”

  He sauntered over slowly, she thought to take his mug of what she presumed was tea, which had been his beverage of choice for her. Green tea, to be exact. Funny how she had actually managed to acquire a taste for it after her time with Ben, even though she was far from a tea drinker. But he did nothing but stand before her. The few feet separating them felt far too short.

  “I’m almost done with the precincts I have,” she responded.

  “You’re done.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “Meaning you’re not walking East Oakland again.”

  She did a double take. “Are you running your uncle’s campaign?”

  He took a step closer. “As far as you’re concerned, yes.”

  She bristled. “Does Gordon know about this? I’m a solid volunteer. And committed.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  A lump rose in her throat. She couldn’t blame him for not believing her. She probably wouldn’t either if she were in his place.

  “If Gordon says I can’t walk East Oakland, then I won’t. Otherwise, I don’t see why I can’t help the campaign.”

  He covered the distance between them as he spoke, and now was within arm’s reach. His presence seemed to occupy more space than his body actually inhabited.

  “You’re not going to walk East Oakland because I say you’re not. Got it, pet?”

  Whoa. He did not just call her that. She quickly put down her glass of water, as if she needed to get ready for a boxing match.

  “I’m not your pet,” she replied evenly, already perturbed that he was telling her what she could or couldn’t do, but she’d allowed it to pass because she understood where he was coming from. However, there was no reason to use that term with her.

  Squaring her shoulders again, she decided it was time for her to go. This conversation wasn’t going to end well.

  “I should—” she began.

  But his mouth mu
ffled the rest of her words.

  Lightning bolts shot through her, the kind she got on a roller coaster—part panic, part thrill. She would have pushed away—she wasn’t ready for this, hadn’t asked for this—but he had some kind of kung-fu grip on her neck, holding her in a way that made her feel as if he might break her neck if she moved wrong. He tended to go for her neck, perhaps the most vulnerable part of the body, always holding her in a way that left her helpless.

  So all she could do was submit to his brutal kiss. His lips crushed hers so bad, it hurt. And yet, exhilaration rushed through her. A rational dissection of what this meant—maybe he didn’t hate her, maybe he was just being an asshole—would come later. For the present, she could do nothing but drown in the pressure, the heat, the excitement that was Ben.

  He devoured her, his hot mouth leaving no centimeter of hers untouched, unclaimed. It was so bruising, so raw, that she almost thought he didn’t know the force he used because he was drunk, but she knew Ben wouldn’t drink to impairment. Something else fueled his vigor.

  To her immense relief, he dropped his hold from her neck to her waist so that he could pull her to him. She slammed into his body, and the hardness at his groin snapped her to attention. She pushed against him, breaking the kiss.

  He stared down at her with a look she recognized all too well, a look that said she was about to be eaten alive.

  Get out while you can, Kimani.

  But in addition to the scrum of emotions inside her, she was pissed. What gave him the right to kiss her like that? She wasn’t his pet. She wasn’t his girlfriend. She wasn’t even someone he was on a date with, where an unexpected kiss might have been the result of awkward timing or miscues. Ben was the sort of guy who knew exactly what he was doing. So this was the moment for her to put him in his place. In an old-fashioned movie, this was when a woman slapped the man across the face for taking liberties. Never mind that she could probably never occupy the same room as Ben without being sexually attracted to him. If she didn’t do anything or say anything, she would be condoning assault.

  Oh, but being assaulted by Ben felt so good...

  She tried pushing him away. It was a fairly weak attempt, perhaps because she knew that even if she used her whole strength, she was no match for him. The only way she could free herself is if he allowed it.