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“Tell me who taught you manners. Have you got a Dom or had one in the past? You said someone taught you. Is there still someone in the picture? Because our ad specifically asked for those entering the contest to be available and interested in meeting someone at our club.”
“Oh,” I said, a little alarmed. Oh shit, I wasn’t really interested in any facet of BDSM, not like personally. But what if I said that, and he turned the car around and took me right back to that freezing apartment? Or just put me out on the side of the road? I didn’t think he would, but I didn’t even know this guy and had no idea how he’d react or what he might do if he knew I’d entered the contest strictly as a joke. Something told me he wouldn’t be at all amused.
“Actually, you were the one who said someone must have taught me. I didn’t mean some guy.”
“I see.”
“I don’t have a boyfriend. Not anymore. Like I said, we broke up almost a year ago. It was my mom who told me I should always act grateful when someone gave me something and always have something nice to say. She was a stickler for that kind of stuff.”
“I see. And does she live here in town?”
“No, she passed away when I was nine. My dad was gone right after, so I wound up in foster care. But foster care wasn’t all that bad, like you see on tv shows. It wasn’t awful or anything. In my experience anyway, but maybe I was just lucky. Of course, if I’d been really lucky, I wouldn’t have been in one of them in the first place, right?”
He just gazed at me with an unreadable expression. “Let me get this straight. You’re saying there’s no boyfriend in the picture now?”
I nodded.
“And no friends to help out?”
“Not really, no.”
“Why is that?”
“I don’t know. Just bad luck, I guess. Which brings us full circle, I guess.” I gave a little hysterical laugh that I quickly cut off.
He seemed to be absorbing all of that for a moment, and he gave me a steady look. “Tell me what happened with your electricity. Why couldn’t you pay your bill?”
“Oh, that’s a long story.”
“Yes, so you’ve said. I’d still like to hear it.”
Man, was this the Dom voice I’d read about online? It wasn’t mean, but it was definitely stern and demanding. This was a man who expected to be answered. The thing was, I wasn’t sure what to say. My life had gone to hell years ago, but more specifically and most recently, about six months earlier. I mean, it had never been great since my mom passed, but it had gotten exponentially worse earlier in the year.
It had all started when I lost my job. I used to be a high school teacher. I got the job right out of college, and I was damn happy to get it too. I didn’t have any experience, and I wasn’t anywhere near the top of my class. In fact, I graduated by the skin of my teeth. And I should probably have been suspicious when the principal was so happy that someone had applied for that job at all.
If you’ve ever met a student from a low-achieving, inner city school, you may have some idea as to why. Those first few months were a constant struggle. But even aside from the behavior problems, which were plentiful and daunting, I kept trying. And I knew right away that I was failing my students, and it made me feel kind of desperate. I wanted so much to help them.
I struggled to teach them the white, middle-class model of the curriculum they told me to teach, but it wasn’t working. The idea was a good one, I guess. It was supposed to give them a chance on standardized testing. A black or brown child from those poor neighborhoods soon learned that he or she was not speaking or writing “Standard English,” as well as learning that their cultural experiences weren’t the norm of the majority in America. They were behind before they even started. But I loved those kids once I got past the snarky attitude, which, like I said, was totally in your face. But they were also bright and funny, and they made me wish so hard that I was a better teacher, so I could help them learn and pass those damn tests.
I didn’t want to get into all that with this perfect, privileged man, though. No way he would understand. So I shrugged instead. “I’d rather not talk about it. Long story.” I heard how that sounded and couldn’t help feeling like I’d said the wrong thing. It sounded prim and ungrateful even to me, not to mention rude. He was saving me from that cold, dead apartment and possible starvation, come to think of it, as there had been no food in the house except for a few cans of soup—that I couldn’t open or heat up without power. I decided the least I could do was spin him a good story to entertain him on the drive home. So that’s what I tried to do. I opened my mouth, and the stories came tumbling out.
“Okay, I’m sorry. It’s not really so long. I’ll tell you. See, it was because of the guy I used to live with. His name was Barry.”
“I thought you said he was Kyle.”
“Right. Kyle Barry. And he was a gang member. He used to beat me up some. I came home one day from work a little early and found him in bed with another guy. He was in the gang too. It was awful. They stole all my money and then they both beat me up and left. Then on account of being so beat up I couldn’t go to work, I lost my job and I couldn’t afford the rent. Not and pay utilities too, anyway. So, I paid what I could and had to let the rest go. That’s about it.”
He glanced over at me, and I knew that he knew I was lying. Which I totally was, but I still resented him thinking that.
“Why don’t I believe any of that?”
Shocked, I turned to glare at him. “I don’t know. Why would I lie?”
“I don’t know. Why would you? Yet you’ve been doing it since I met you. Tell me the name of the gang.”
“What gang?”
“The one your boyfriend was in.”
