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“Drop her off at the Blackwell and meet us at Allie’s,” said Milo. “We’ll save a little piece of her ass for you, if you don’t take too long.”
“Fuck.” I looked down at the top of Jewels’ head, wondering why I’d chosen tonight of all nights to play the superhero. “Fine, I’ll meet you there as soon as I can. But before you go, help me get her into a cab.”
*
The woman fellasleep as soon as the taxi rolled into traffic. The ten-minute ride to the Blackwell building stretched to twenty minutes because of an accident, and she slumped against my shoulder, her unkempt curls tickling my chin.
At least she’d stopped crying. I couldn’t deal with female tears, unless they were sexual-masochist tears, and then I wanted to bathe in them.Yeah, don’t think about that now. Wait until you’re at Allie’s.
We pulled up at the Blackwell, and I half-helped, half-carried her into the lobby. “Any idea where this one belongs?” I asked the doorman.
“No, Mr. St. Clair, don’t recognize her.”
“Fuck.” I lifted her as she started sagging. “She told me she lives here.”
“I don’t know, sir. I can’t say I know everyone in the building.”
I wanted to ask if I could leave her in the lobby until she perked up, but the doorman’s expression was already telling me no. This wasn’t the type of building that allowed passed-out club girls to sleep it off on the sofas, even if she lived here.
“I guess I’ll take her up to my place until she’s a little more with it,” I said.
“That sounds like a good idea, sir.”
“If anyone asks after a woman named Jewels, give me a call.”
“You got it, Mr. St. Clair.”
You’re an idiot, Mr. St. Clair.That’s what his tone communicated, and he was right. I was bringing an unknown woman to my penthouse in the middle of the night. Neighbor or not, she might wake up and accuse me of anything. She might go on a rampage and murder me in my apartment before she jumped out of my fortieth floor window. She might be anyone, or do anything in response to my act of kindness.
As soon as I got her in my apartment, I laid her on a couch in the living room. I’d already checked her clothes in the cab for pockets, ID, a phone. Nothing.
I sat back on my heels, staring at her, trying to think. Fawn-brown hair, smooth skin, but older than I’d originally thought, now that I saw her in the light. Who was she? Had I ever seen her in the elevator? She had gorgeous legs, and I had a weakness for legs, so I probably would have remembered her. I pulled the top of one of her socks to make them even, and let my thumb drift over the bare skin above it before I let go.No, we don’t fuck the drunk ones.
I took off her shoes instead, because they looked clunky and uncomfortable, and she curled into my sofa. She looked a little less vulnerable now, even though her mouth was half-open, and her eyelids twitched as if she was having a nightmare. I brushed aside her hair to find the back of her collar so I could unbuckle it.
She turned her head as I pulled it off, but she didn’t wake. I’d hoped there might be some tag or label, or identifying words written on the inside. No such luck. I turned it over in my hands, inspecting the hardware. It was a novelty store collar, pleather with crap stitching, nothing a serious player would use.
A serious player.I sounded like an elitist asshole, but in the BDSM world, there were people who dabbled, and people who swam in the deep end. I belonged to the latter group, as did the perverts I hung out with. I played in the world where consent and force started to blur—with willing partners, of course, when I could find them.
And when I found them, I didn’t adorn them in cheap pleather painted brass novelty store shit.
I tossed the collar on the end table and went to the kitchen, shedding my suit jacket and loosening my tie. I rolled up my sleeves and ran cool water on a dishtowel, soaking it through and squeezing it out. Damn, the perfect way to spend a Friday night, with someone’s messed up submissive who might or might not throw up on my favorite sofa. If I could go back in time…
If I could go back in time, I’d still help her.
“Wake up, little subbie,” I said. “Where do you live? Someone’s probably looking for you.”
Her eyes tried to open, but didn’t quite manage it. “Good luck,” she said.
“What? Stay with me a minute, Jewels. What unit do you live in?”
“Blackwall.” She rubbed a hand over her face, smearing more eyeliner. “Blackwall.”
“We’re at the Blackwell. What’s your apartment number?”
“Good luck. Boundless.”
I sighed. “I need to get you home. How are you feeling? Are you going to be sick?”
