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“At the harbor?” I ask.
“Yes, sir.”
“Perfect. Tell him I’ll be there.”
“Thank you so much, Mr. Kade.” With that, I hear her shuffling out with her coat and bags, always trying to juggle so much at once.
When the door closes, the apartment is bathed in silence.
It’s deafening.
There’s something weird about silence, as if it holds me hostage. It won’t let me move. Won’t let me put on music or the TV. And it certainly won’t let me sleep. Instead, it forces me to be alone with my thoughts. Cruel, cruel silence.
But at least tonight, my thoughts are filled with a sweet face. Round blue eyes and blushing red cheeks. I can’t get the nervous look Daisy wore up on that stage out of my head.
After I left the club, I came straight home. Agatha was here, my meal prepared and waiting for me. And she can tell me she waited up for me because she doesn’t like the silence, but I know the real reason. Agatha knows what today is. She was waiting for me to get home, because there is no one else to.
It’s kind, but I wish it wasn’t my widowed housekeeper.
I should have taken Daisy on a date. It makes me feel pathetic to admit it, but I should have. Even if for no other reason than one night of company.
One night that could potentially become a month or a year. Until it starts to feel like she loves the luxury I provide a little too much. Then it will inevitably end—painfully.
But hope, that stubborn fungus that seems to grow wherever it can, has me thinking that maybe it wouldn’t.
No, stop. Don’t go down that road.
I suppose I should get some sleep, but I can’t seem to force my mind to quiet enough to relax, so I don’t even bother trying. Instead, I grab my phone off the table and my jacket off the hook as I head toward the front door. After stepping into the empty elevator, I press the main floor button instead of the garage. Sometimes I go for drives at night to relax, but other nights, I enjoy a quiet stroll around the city. Tonight is one of those kinds of nights.
The cold air bites at my neck, so I button my jacket as I pass through the door of the lobby. It seems we have one last cold snap before spring quickly becomes summer.
“Need me to call you a ride, Mr. Kade?” the doorman asks.
“No thanks, Tyson. Going to enjoy a midnight stroll instead.”
“Enjoy, sir.”
It’s quiet, but not the same quiet as my apartment. In there, it’s loneliness, but out here, the sounds are like a melody—peaceful and harmonic. Cars driving by, crosswalk signals, music in the distance.
The streets are relatively safe in this part of town. Upscale apartments and boutique-style businesses line the streets.
A few blocks down, there’s a bar. The distant sound of voices echo through the empty streets. It’s a comforting sign of life, night owls having their fun while the rest of the world is sleeping. I’ve always loved the night life—not that I go to bars like that anymore.
In my younger days, I would. After my world fell apart, I took comfort in binge drinking and casual sex to distract me and blur reality, so I didn’t have to feel the excruciating things I didn’t want to feel.
That was all before I discovered the lifestyle, which sort of happened by accident. I was in my thirties, wasting my life away on a vicious cycle of money and sex when I started sleeping with a woman who had a taste for being tied up and submitting her body to me. That was when I discovered that I, too, had certain tastes—a taste for pleasure and domination.
So, I started to seek out more women who had similar cravings.
Soon, it became less about sex and numbing the pain and more about focusing my attention on something that actually made me feel useful and needed. I found my purpose again.
Then, nine years ago, Salacious opened and for the first time in nearly twenty years, I had a semblance of a family again. Friends, like Emerson and Eden, didn’t make me feel so different for what I liked in the bedroom. They gave me a place to truly be myself, without judgment or ridicule. I had almost forgotten how fulfilling a family like that could be.
Deep in contemplation, I continue my walk. Instead of staying straight and heading toward the bar, I turn to the left, approaching a city park after a couple more blocks. Across the street is a gas station that stays open late. The owner’s name is Sherie, and her husband died last May, so I try to stop in more often to see how things are going.
Sherie is behind the counter when I walk in, the doorbell chiming and alerting her of my presence. She looks up from her book and smiles at me with a warm greeting.
“Ronan,” she says with a tilt of her head. “Out late again?”
