Chapter
Six
Kitten
The alarm goes off and my body screams, some stiffness and some pain. I check the mirror for bruises, and a mixture of shame and familiarity hits me. I used to do this all the time when I was with Bo. Get up quietly, check to see the damage, take a shower, then make breakfast.
My wrist still hurts, and I slide on a brace I used to wear. I told everyone it was for tendonitis. If they knew I lied, they never asked any follow up questions.
The damage report isn’t as bad as I thought, faded bruising around my neck that can be covered with a turtleneck … leaning into the mirror and adjusting the light. Maybe I won’t need to hide it. Fox did a good job treating the injuries. Hmm, strange, I’m used to the pain but never felt cared for before. I don’t know how to deal with it. I’ve never had someone else take care of me. His tenderness lingers on my skin longer than the pain does. I don’t know what to do with that, so I shove it in the back of my mind and get ready for the day.
Once I’m at work, I like the normality and predictability of the job. No one asks me how my evening was. I don’t have toexplain the potential attack—which I’m grateful for—and no one asks if I went to a sex club with a masked man either. Or if I am going back tonight. So they’re missing out on all the juicy gossip.
My knees have been bouncing under my desk for an hour now, and I’ve been staring at the clock all day. He texted me this morning with instructions on how to get into the club, who to talk to, how to get a locker key, all that stuff. He also told me to stay hydrated.
I jump when the phone rings, startling me out of my lust-crazed fantasy. I smirk when I see the Mastodon Security name across the caller ID. She doesn’t know it, but Alana is my only stable relationship in years. I look forward to these calls every week, even if they end in rejection. Should I take a deep dive into that? Nope. Now isn’t the time for reflective therapy.
She cuts right to the purpose of the call. “Yeah, I’m going to pass on the most recent designs.” Shocker. I knew hang-gliding elephants didn’t give the right vibe. “We pulled the security footage at the garage,” she adds.
My stomach knots. It’s been nicer focusing on my fun, sexy adventures than what could have been. Now the terrible parts of the evening come rushing back to me. My heart rate spikes as I choke out, “Oh, did you report them to the police?”
She huffs, which is the closest thing I’ve ever heard to a laugh from her. “I have other friends who are more effective at justice. They won’t bother you again.”
Not exactly the response I expected, but thinking about how everyone reacted to her, maybe she’s more than a security company’s CEO. “Do you need a shovel?” I ask with a laugh to defuse my inner panic.
“Only amateurs bury bodies.”
Oh fuck. Nope … that didn’t work. Now I’m even more terrified.
She shifts the conversation. “So … you and Fox, huh?”
I blush and dip my head closer to the phone. “Yeah.” The idea strikes me. “Do you know him?”
“I know everyone at the club. I’ve been going there for years. I prefer to control when, how, and to what extent I fuck, and Club Midnight is the best place to do it.”
A few days ago, I might’ve clutched my pearls, but instead, as I scroll through all the new found information, that sounds one hundred percent right. A scary female boss in a male-dominated field, she can’t let herself be too vulnerable or let her guard down. But if she knows everyone, she might know more about Fox. “Do you know who he is without the mask?”
“I know everyone at the club.” She repeats it slower this time.
Every man I pass today at work, I play the “Could you be Fox?” game. It’s like playing Guess Who. Some people are eliminated because of height or body type. “Um, does he use his real voice in the club?” That would help narrow it down.
There's silence on her end of the line. “No. He’s a trained actor, among other things.”
“Other things?”
“He works in finance.”
I giggle. “Oh, he’s an accountant?” No one asks questions when you’re an accountant.
“Among other things,” she repeats. “Be careful with him. He’s friendly with powerful people, and he’s been through his own shit.” Her voice lightens. “But he’s a good guy, and I don’t use that term lightly.”
“That’s a ringing endorsement,” I say. In the past twenty-four hours, I’ve discovered that Alana’s view of morality may be a dark shade of gray. And yet she helped me last night. Which begs the question, “Why are you doing all of this for me, sending someone to protect me and supporting me on this sexual journey?”
She’s quiet for so long, I think she’s hung up. “I’ve met thousands of people in my adult life,” she states with a raw honesty in her voice. It’s a little unnerving. “I don’t like most of them. You put up with my shit, and our phone calls center me for the rest of the day. Don’t know why, don’t ask any follow-ups.”
“I don’t know what to say.” Because I don’t. Should I tell her I like our phone calls too? Maybe we could hang out sometime. But she doesn't seem like the kind of person who hangs out.
Her voice becomes light and dismissive, “This thing with Fox is going to blow up in both of your faces, but no matter what, you’ll have fun for a little while. Talk to you next week when I reject your next set of designs.”
