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Faded paint peeling in the elements, the shed looks normal, even on the inside. A lawnmower sits over in the corner. The smell of gas, oil and grass clippings fills my nose. A metal toolbox sits against the other wall. A few empty pots are stacked in the corner. Charlie doesn’t strike me as much of a gardener.
Sheba goes to the middle of the small storage room and scratches at the old green outdoor carpet covering the floor. I push the carpet back to reveal a trapdoor. Where the outside of the shed appears as old as the house, the wood covering the floor looks brand new. Maybe because of the protective carpet, but I have a feeling Charlie must have altered it.
Adrenaline makes my hands shake, but I grab the latch, pull the door up, and lay it back. An old, rickety-looking set of steps leads down into the darkness. Sheba jumps down into the hole without hesitation.
I hate dark creepy places. It smells old and dank like a grave. I can only imagine the spiders and creepy crawlers and snakes.
Sheba yips at me, trying to hurry me along. Sighing, I pull out my phone and use it as a flashlight so I can scan the sides. It looks like an old root cellar. There are ancient shelves on the walls, still loaded with petrified home-canned jars. As gingerly as possible, I climb down the few steps, automatically ducking and cringing to keep from touching the nasty cobwebs draped like rotting curtains over everything.
The space is small, six or seven feet long and barely a foot over my head. I can’t imagine coming down here in case of a tornado, but at least this time of year, all of the bugs and snakes are dead or hibernating. The only thing not coated in thick dust is a silver box sitting in the middle of the floor with a heavy-duty flashlight on top of it. Sheba sits beside it, wagging her tail and looking extremely pleased with herself. I think she’s smiling.
I squat down in front of the box and flip on the flashlight so I can put my phone away. The box is the shape and size of a briefcase with a three-digit dialing lock holding it shut. Great. I have no idea what the code would be to open it. Unless… I try 222, the same number he used on his bank account, but the lid won’t open. I look up at Sheba, her goofy, grinning dog face with her tongue hanging out. He would’ve made it easy, right? And he would’ve known Sheba would be with me. I wouldn’t have found this old cellar without her.
I crawl closer to her and run my fingers around her collar, looking for her tags. She wears two. One has Charlie’s name and address on it, and the other has her rabies shot information. The rabies number is too long for the three-digit lock. I flip the bone-shaped tag with Charlie’s information on it over. Engraved on the back: 883.
Fingers shaking, I shift the dials to those numbers and the lid clicks. I hold my breath and open the lid. A stack of papers lay on top. I unfold the first one and tip it toward the light so I can read. It’s the deed to his house. In my name.My house is your house.
Stunned, I set it aside. The other papers are account statements. One I recognize by the balance, the one he used to pay the bills automatically for the house. The numbers blur together, so large they don’t make sense to me. I set them aside too. The right-hand side of the case is loaded with stacks of cash. I’ve never seen so much in one place. The other side has another small case, a coil of delicate silver chain, and a phone.
A phone. I grab it and hit the power button. It’s a no-name disposable phone, but heavy and substantial. The battery still holds its charge, and once it powers on, there’s only one contact listed.
Charlie.
I can call him. I could talk to him.
If I want.
That’s my Master all the way. Tears pool in my eyes, but I don’t call yet. I need to know everything.
I pick up the silver chain, trying to decide what it is. It has two separate pieces, one longer with rings on either end, and another shorter one attached in the middle with another ring. An open lock falls off in the dirt. I fish it out and hold it up in front of the flashlight. My wicked subbie mind can come up with all sorts of wonderful things to do with locks and chains. It isn’t his collar, the big, thick heavy leather one. This chain is more delicate.
I can see it. The silver chain, wrapped around my waist, with the shorter one just tight enough to slide deliciously against my pussy with every single step. Locked around my waist. No key. Naturally.
It’s all I can do not to strip down and slide the chain into place. But that’d be stupid since I don’t know how long he’ll be gone. To make it a good chastity device, it wouldn’t be comfortable for bathroom visits, at least not for long. I drop the chain and lock to the opposite side and turn my attention to the small case.
No lock. It opens easily, but the gun inside makes me recoil. I snap the lid shut as hard and quickly as if a cobra poised inside, ready to strike.
All my hopes and dreams, and all my fears, are packed away inside this briefcase. I can call him. But he also reminded me exactly of who and what he is.
A killer. That won’t ever change. Not if his secret stash contains cash and a gun.
He’ll always be prepared to pick up and disappear. I’ll have to be willing to live like that too if I want to be with him. I’ll have to say goodbye to my family, Dr. Wentworth and her clinic, and my online friends. I’ll have to get used to seeing him with guns and knives. To know that he kills people. Maybe not good, innocent people, but people.
The man I love is a murderer.
An assassin for hire.
A serial killer of serial killers.
Who’s so good at his job that he left me stacks of cash, a house, and over twenty thousand dollars in a single account.
But he’s still Charlie. My Master. He already holds the key to my heart. He already locked me to him.
On my knees on the dirt floor of the cellar, I hit dial and wait to hear his voice. Tears trickle down my cheeks. I ache so badly to hear his voice. To know that he’s okay. That he still wants me. That he thinks about me, even a little. That this isn’t just a horrible nightmare.
He’s real. What we have together is real.
One ring. Two. Three. Oh fuck, he’s not going to answer. It’s just a cruel joke. He’s gone. I should have known…
