Obsessive Compulsion (2 page)

The café mocha addiction support from Kyle
bothers me because I know he’s trying to get into my pants. Boys
like Kyle, I can sense coming a mile away. And I do mean it when I
say
boys
.

Oh, he’s a man alright, physically speaking.
Average height, piercing blue eyes that I’m sure have seen more
than their fair share of dropped panties, and a decent build of
muscle I know he gets from going to the gym four times a week
minimum, just like all these males now hanging around Emma. I guess
when you’re expected to be in bondage gear once a week, you have to
keep up appearances.

That thought makes me laugh a little into my
café mocha as I watch Kyle swagger his hips out the door after Saul
and Ian. And boy, does he ever swagger. I haven’t seen it yet, but
I can picture all three of their tight asses in leather, and I
wouldn’t be a woman if that didn’t make me at least a little warm
under the collar. And… elsewhere…

Bondage. Leather. BDSM.
Oh,
mercy
…

When Emma told me what kind of things
Brandon was mixed up in with his specialty ‘members only’ club, The
Stables, I nearly dragged her out of that hospital and drove her to
the safety of my folks’ place up in Oklahoma. It’s not that I’m a
prude, not even by a very long shot, it’s just that Emma is my best
friend. My girl. If it hadn’t been absolutely clear that she was
one hundred percent okay with it and that Brandon wasn’t an amazing
guy, I wouldn’t of stepped aside.

She’s happy though, and Brandon really is a
great guy. A great guy who just happens to own a BDSM club he runs
from his family’s farm on the weekend with the same people he
builds villages in shoe factories with during the week. Now Emma is
living on that farm while she gets herself back together, and she
keeps inviting me out to do something called a
debut
at the
club.

I’m actually kina curious what kind of stuff
goes down at their club on Friday nights. I know eventually I’m
gonna have to take her up on her request so I can learn about this
new part of her life. As her best friend, who has royally messed up
more than once when it comes to her, I owe her at least giving it
all a chance. I guess I’m just waiting for that extra push and
maybe for Kyle to back off a little.

I’m not sure how long it’s going to take,
though, for him to take the hint that I can smell the sex-boy
cologne on him and want no part of it. I’m not interested in
becoming another one-night belt-notch. I’ve had way too many of
those already.

I’m
only
twenty-seven, but maybe it’s
time I slowed down just a tad. I have standards, but I don’t see
anything wrong with enjoying a good romp in the hay when the moment
is there. Life is all about moments, and you can either live them
or let them pass you by.

I’m all about living.

Sleeping through the attractive men who have
formed a tight circle around Emma, however, may not be the best
course of action. Even if picturing them in leather makes me drool
a little.

Kyle is a definite
no
. I can tell
he’s not looking for anything close to semi-exclusive. Emma said
she hasn’t seen him with the same girl twice in a row yet. None of
my business if a guy wants to be a man-whore, but that’s not my
glass of brandy, either.

Saul is a blonde-headed tall drink of water
with an easy smile and a southern drawl that makes him sound like
he should be wearing a cowboy hat, boots and nothing else to bed.
Yes, I’ve had that mental picture in my head for at least two
weeks, but Saul is also off the table. Poor guy is completely
devoted to Victoria, despite things being a little complicatedly
rocky between them. Emma hasn’t elaborated on the
why
of
that, but that’s also not my business.

Emma may be part of their little family now,
but I’m not quite sure where, or if, I fit in. Victoria said I’m
one of the girls, but sometimes I feel like that weird distant
cousin at the reunion that everyone acknowledges but leaves to fend
for herself on the bench-of-solitude all day. I’m admittedly a
little jealous, because it’s always just been me and Emma. I’m also
glad she has all these new people in her life that seem to accept
and support her and her quirks.

Saul said it best on the day I met everyone
– ‘
aint none of us is exactly screwed on straight’
.
Everyone’s got their hang-ups, their oddities, those things that
make them unique. Most people just try and hide them while at the
same time pointing and laughing or looking down their nose at
everyone else’s. Not this bunch. No, they tend to wear them right
out in the open and encourage others to do the same.

Sure, they tone it down during the week when
interacting with people for business, but on off hours and the
weekend, anything goes. I have to respect that, and maybe be a
little bit envious of it. I guess the only hold up is me. I just
need to jump in, take up Emma’s invitation and see if I can
completely accept all of who they are.

How can I expect them to let me all the way
in if I don’t at least try and meet them halfway?

The door reopens and Ian walks in, striding
purposefully back to the desk set near the factory’s side entrance.
He’s cute. Handsome in a toned down GQ magazine kind of way.
Nothing in your face sexy – just simple features like hazel eyes,
sandy brown hair and a pleasing, perhaps a bit boyish, face. He’s
also a sweet, genuine guy, when I can get him to talk to me.

Not sure if I’ve offended him somehow, or
maybe he’s just shy, but I’ve been getting the feeling that he does
his best to avoid me. On that first day I met everyone, he’d knelt
in front of me and dried my tears with a napkin then glued himself
to my side as we searched for Emma. While Emma was in the hospital,
he continued to be there when I needed anything, often times simply
just being someone next to me so I wouldn’t feel so alone.

I was dealing with a lot of guilt, and I
know I still am, about what happened to Emma. Both times. God, how
could I let her down like that twice?

Maybe that’s what it is. Maybe that’s why
Ian’s pulled away, just like he doesn’t seem to be talking much to
Kyle. Now that the dust has settled and Ian’s come to realize what
a horrible
best friend
I am, maybe he’s decided my ass
belongs on that bench-of-solitude.

“Miss McLeod?”

Ian’s voice startles me out of my guilty
thoughts and I force a smile onto my lips. “Please, call me
Charlie. Hearin’ ‘Miss McLeod’ just makes a girl feel old.”

“My apologies,” he clears his throat, but
his eyes are looking everywhere but at me. “The framers will be
starting today, so we will need to move your sign work. Also, with
the noise and dust, you may want to delay further painting.”

I nod and stand, scratching an itch on my
nose. “Alright, not a problem. Can’t wait to see it all start
comin’ together.”

“Yes, well…” his voice trails off and then
he snorts.

That little snort he does when he laughs is
cute, too. Damn me, the boy is just plain adorable and I want to
eat him up. Not that he’d ever let me. Would he?

The mixed signals from him have been keeping
me out of sorts for three months, now that I think about it. I can
admit I’m attracted to him, and I do enjoy his company when he’s
not playing hard to get. I’d even considered asking him out, but
then he started pulling away.

He’s looking at me now, though, his gaze
locked on my nose with a slight blush coloring his cheeks. It makes
me wonder… “Well, what?”

“You have paint on your nose,” he points,
swallowing another snort.

I cross my eyes to look at my nose, and he
loses the battle against his laugh. I scrunch up my nose and try
wiping it with my hand again, then realize I’ve got white paint all
over my hand. “Dang it!”

His laughter calms and he pulls out a little
foil package from his pocket. It’s one of those wetnaps you get
with chicken wings or that moms carry around in their purses. He
always seems to have them in his pocket. Tearing open the package,
he keeps his gaze focused on my nose.

“Hold still, please,” he barely
whispers.

He doesn’t touch anything but my nose and
cheek, and only with the wetnap. I do my best not to move, but the
wetnap tickles and smells of lemons. I like lemons, but the tart
scent tickles my nose. I take the time, as he intently focuses on
cleaning my face, to examine his features more closely. Especially
his eyes.

They aren’t your normal green and brown
hazel. The brown is a fine ring right before the white, and the
green that fills in his irises is mixed with blue. The green is
faded, like milky jade, and the blue is the color of white-washed
denim. They’re strange, his eyes, and I want nothing more than to
go find an empty canvases to try and recreate them with
watercolors.

His gaze flicks up to mine, we stare into
each other’s pupils for a breath, and then he’s down-casting his
gaze as he steps away. “All done.”

“Thank you,” I say just a bit too cheerily
to try and push away the crazy vibrations I’m feeling. His eyes,
they do something to me. My fingers itch for a paintbrush.

He nods, folding the dirty wetnap and
stuffing it back into the foil package. “I will have the sign moved
away from the work before your return on Friday.”

“Thank you,” I repeat. Great, I’ve gone into
parrot-mode while my brain is focusing on his profile as the
sunbeams cast shadows across it. Now I want to capture his face in
charcoal, or perhaps oil pastels.

He seems reluctant to move, which is
allowing this odd interlude to linger. “It’s starting to rain,” he
says. “You may want to go ahead and leave for your class.”

My class? Oh, right, the one I teach. At
eleven.
Shit!

“Oh, yeah, I probably should. Thanks. People
forget how to drive in Dallas when it’s raining in December. I
swear, you’d think it was Armageddon every time the weatherman even
sneezes at the word sleet.”

And now I’m rambling about the weather.
Really, Charlie? The weather?

A subtle smirk twitches his lip and I’m back
to admiring his features. Before I start asking him to pose, I grab
a rag, clean my hands and pickup up my mess. “Guess I’ll see you…
Monday?”

He nods. “I might be here on Friday morning
to check on the framework, but I don’t know if it would be before
your class.”

My eyebrow quirks up as I tap the lid back
on the paint can. He knows my teaching schedule pretty damn well. I
teach two classes and hold studio sessions on Tuesdays and
Thursdays, eating up my entire day. On Wednesdays and Fridays I
just have the eleven o’clock. When I’m not teaching at the
University, I try to come here and help make Emma’s dream a
reality.

I think my thoughtful pause bothers him,
because he clears his throat, dips his head and begins heading back
out the door. “Good day, Miss… Charlie.”

“See ya,” I offer back, my casual slang
juxtaposing against his formality. I watch the straight path he
follows out of the building, the metal door closing behind him with
an echoing clang. The urge to grab any medium I can and capture his
likeness on canvas or sketchpad continues to tingle over my nerves.
I don’t know what it is about Ian Rider, but it calls to my crazy
artistic chaos.

I want to get under his skin, deviate his
straight lines and loosen up his formal tone. It’s like this itch I
need to scratch, and it’s been driving me slowly insane since he
first knelt down in front of me to dry my tears three months ago. I
know, though, that before I’ll ever be able to reach that nagging
itch, I’ll have to step away from my own comforts a little bit and
step further into his.

Friday. I’ve made it almost two whole days
without thinking about Charlie.

Dammit.

Well, I was close. After our brief meeting
in the factory, I’d refocused all my efforts into managing the
framers at Shoe Village and then on getting The Stables ready for
another Friday night. Another long,
lonely
Friday night.

Standing in my safety zone behind the bar,
which has become my unquestioned refuge over the years, I look out
over the gathering members. It’s a quarter to seven in the evening.
Everyone is simply waiting for Brandon and Emma to make an
appearance before the usual community mingling and training
displays begin. The
Stable Master
and his
Baby Doll
.
I wonder what adorable little outfit Emma will be wearing
tonight.

Last week, she was in a pink corset with
huge silk bows that had more than one person drooling at her all
night. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t look. She’s so damn cute,
and I know Brandon doesn’t mind the stares. Everyone knows and
respects that Emma is
his
, not only as his wife but also as
his Submissive. Emma really has all the control, though. If she
suddenly wanted to include someone else in their fun, I know
Brandon would suck up his sharing-issues and give her what she
wants.

I don’t think she ever will. Emma is one
hundred percent devoted to Brandon, and it’s a beautiful thing to
watch. My eyes cast back over the crowd. Watching is what I do
here, mostly. I’ve tried to participate a few times, but it’s hard.
People seem to get that, whether they understand why or not, and
they respect my chosen place of observation behind the bar.

I’m still offered invitations to join in
from time to time, but they never hold it against me when I
decline. Sometimes, I get looks of sympathy, but I try not to let
that bother me. Right now, I know I’ve got zero interest in
participating, even as an Assist. The very thought of touching a
man or woman who isn’t a particular redhead makes me twitch.

I’ve got an obsessive compulsive itch for
Charlie McLeod, and I’ve got it bad. I think my friends know it,
even Kyle. Hasn’t stopped the prick from making passes at my
Charlie.