OnlyatTheCavern (4 page)

She looked down at the floor and cleared her throat. “I’ll
see if your sister has arrived and bring your prescriptions.”

The squeak of her sneakers on the tile as she turned and ran
out of the room sounded as if the walls screamed, “Coward,” at her retreating
back. That hint of vulnerability was exactly what she looked for in a
submissive. That tiny crack in the armor. The suggestion that they knew they
were wanting. The indication that they hungered for instruction licked all of
her hot spots.

What if? Ah. A dangerous phrase. What if she took what the
captain offered? What if she was able to mold him into the perfect sub who
worshipped at her feet but was capable of functioning on his own when she
needed personal space?

And what of Army, her current submissive? She meant what she
said. The love between a Dom and their sub was precious and when she had taken
Army, she promised her devotion. The hours and patience that went into
cultivating the level of trust required in their relationship were not something
she’d disregard because someone interesting crossed her path.

“Let him go, Jaz,” she murmured and went in search of Abby.
It was time for the captain to go home.

* * * * *

Twin frosted glass spheres rested atop pedestals on either
side of the asphalt driveway and glowed a mellow gold in the dark winter’s
night. Every time she drove between them, Jasmine felt as if she were in that
old movie
The NeverEnding Story
, and she had to pass the Oracles’ test
or be burnt to a crisp. Given the mood she was in, blue lasers and fire would
be the most likely outcome on this pass through.

During the last twelve hours of her shift, the skies did
their best impression of Snoqualmie Falls, and a few choice assholes decided to
drive as if there weren’t two inches of standing water covering the highway.
Fortunately the ten-car pile-up had occurred after the morning commute. God
help them all if it had been at the height of rush hour.

On any other night, she’d shake off the trauma of such a
trying day by kicking back with a huge glass of Syrah and a steamy romance
novel, or be buried deep in the crowd on the dance floor at The Cavern.
Escapism was a powerful tool and she made it her passion to utilize every trick
imaginable to deal with the pressures she faced every day. A night spent with
her family was not among those techniques.

In truth, she’d rather be anywhere else in the world than
walking up the stone steps of the home of her mother and stepfather. Twice
before she had tried to avoid these monthly dinners, and twice her mother had
called nonstop for over an hour before showing up at Jasmine’s doorstep. What
was more important than family time? Why must she make her mother cry?

The lesson Jasmine learned was to make sure she was
scheduled to work on as many of those nights as possible, and to never have a
submissive in her home. Thankfully her mother hadn’t realized the incense that
had been hurriedly lit was to cover the scent of sex and sweat and was not for
ambiance.

In all fairness, Oksana and her husband Bruno Brodsky were
lovely people. To those they weren’t related to. And the males of the family.
Carry an extra X-chromosome and the expectations and attitudes reverted back to
the happy, fun days of the Middle Ages. Nothing had disappointed her mother
more than Jasmine’s choice to go to college instead of going back to her Czech
homeland and finding a husband. One would have thought she had announced she’d
become a drug-dealing mass murderer the way her mother had carried on.

“Why you do this to me?” her mother had wailed. “Why must
you break my heart? Was I not good enough example of how a woman should behave?
You will find more joy in raising a family. Not in school. The boys in that
school will spit on you. Smart girls are no attractive. Bruno, Bruno, explain how
she is wrong.”

Had Jasmine not expected the temper tantrum, she might have
been hurt by her mother’s reaction, but by then the argument had been so old
hat and flat-out wrong, she tuned out the crying and dreamed of the freedom of
being out on her own.

She knew it was fear that made her mother believe a woman
was incapable of surviving on her own. After her mother’s family escaped from
the Nazi stronghold in their village during World War II and made the
decades-long migration across Europe, the women depended solely on the men to
keep them alive. That dependence continued when they reached the United States
and were tossed into a culture they in no way comprehended. Housework,
childrearing, those were skills they knew and understood. They were safe within
the home. A belief that was passed on from mother to daughter and on down the
line.

The notion had become so ingrained in her mother that when
Jasmine’s father had passed away, Oksana jumped on the first plane to the old
homestead and married one of his cousins. Jasmine did have a few female cousins
who put up a good fight against the archaic philosophy. Some even went on to
attend college. However, the only degree they had graduated with was an Mrs.
with a minor in baby on the way.

It was sad, really. Jasmine sighed as she pressed the softly
lit doorbell. Instead of being proud to have a daughter who was not afraid of
forging her way in this big, scary world, her mother tried to obliterate the
very fire that made Jasmine special. Good thing she had long ago stopped trying
to earn her mother’s approval.

The door swung open, revealing a petite woman decked out in
a bronze-colored taffeta cocktail dress with a rhinestone belt encircling her
plump waist. A strand of pearls adorned her neck, matching the drop earrings.
She was an homage to Doris Day and June Cleaver, with a bit of Jeanne Copper
from
The Young and the Restless
tossed into the mix, which was fitting
since her mother practiced her English by watching daytime television.

“Jasmine,” her mother cried with a smile that fell as her
gaze traveled up and down her body. “What are you wearing?”

“They’re called clothes, Mother.” She stepped across the
threshold and dropped a kiss to her mother’s cheek.

“You are wearing the denim jeans on a special occasion. You
could have at least put on a pretty dress or a skirt.”

Her mother was lucky she found time to shower and put on
something clean and wrinkle-free. “What are we celebrating tonight?”

“Emil has signed a new client. The boss was very happy.”

“That’s fantastic,” she exclaimed with a plastic smile on
her lips. And so completely typical.

Yes, let’s throw a party because her brother did his job. He
was a salesman for a security firm, hired exclusively to land new clients. If
her memory was correct, this was his third sale since he had been hired six
months ago.
But hey, way to go, bro, for doing what you’re paid to do.

“Follow me, Jasmine.” Her mother took her by the hand. “You
can borrow some of my clothes. And lipstick. Men like to look at a woman’s
lips.”

As if she didn’t already know that fact, she silently
smirked.
Hey. Wait a minute…

She stopped in her tracks. “What men will be here to care if
I’m wearing lipstick?”

Her mother’s cheeks bunched so high with her grin, they
almost obscured her eyes. She clapped her hands before her breasts. “Your
brother is bringing a friend.”

“Oh, Christ,” she groaned.

“Jasmine Elena.” Her mother made the sign of the cross and
kissed her fingers. “Language.”

“I’m sorry, but—I—ugh.” What was the point? No amount of
excuses, no amount of arguing was going to change the course of the next few
hours. If she wanted to find a modicum of peace, it was best to pick her
battles. This moment was not one of them. “I’m sorry.”

“My baby daughter.” Oksana slipped her arm around her
shoulder, guiding her toward the living room. “I only wish for your happiness.”

I am happy.

“Emil says this Mitchell is a good man.”

“And Emil knows this how?”

“He works with Emil. He is a, uh, how do you say, technical
person. He makes work what Emil sells.”

Jasmine waited for her mother to continue, but when nothing
more was said, she nodded. “Sounds like he’s quite a catch. By the way, is Emil
bringing, what’s his girlfriend’s name? Angela?”

“No, no. Angela was three months ago. This last one was
Andrea. She too is not the right girl. But he is young still. He has plenty of
time to find the one.”

Yes, Emil at thirty-five was still young, but she was an
unfulfilled old maid at age thirty-two.

She broke away from her mother to greet her stepfather who
sat in his favorite chair. “Good evening, Bruno.”

“Jasmine.” He tilted his head up to receive his kiss. “Hmph.
Your brother owes me twenty dollars. He said you will not be here tonight. I
knew you would not break your mother’s heart by missing another dinner.”

“I make the ones I can. You know that.”

He peered at her over his glasses. His bushy gray eyebrows
rose above the frames like caterpillars. “
I
know. You are a good girl,
when you remember your place.”

The doorbell rang, saving her from making a smart remark
that she knew would cause her more grief than the outburst would be worth.

Oksana ran to greet the newcomers while Bruno held up an
empty highball glass. “Jasmine. Fix me a scotch.”

“My pleasure.” She took his glass and walked the three feet
to the small bar nestled in the corner of the room. The tink of the crystal
stopper being pulled out of its home was drowned out by the sound of her
mother’s chatter combined with the husky murmur of men responding in kind.

Now that he was older, Emil sounded so much like her father,
she sometimes forgot he was gone. Her brother looked like him too, tall and
lean with charcoal-black hair that was so straight, no amount of hair product
could completely tame the strands into submission. With his sharp nose and
heavy brows over small, dark eyes, his features embodied that eastern European
sternness, until he smiled, which was all the time. And why not? He was
the
son and the sun of the family. The hope for the clan to carry on their lineage.
The only thing that kept Emil from getting too big a head was her willingness
to knock him down a peg. There was nothing like having your baby sister show
you up to inspire a little competition.

As she poured the amber liquid into the glass she could hear
the creak of the La-Z-Boy as Bruno hefted his thick weight to a stand and the
solid thwack of his hand hitting flesh as he hugged his stepson tight and
pounded him on the back.

“Emil. Good to see you, son,” he greeted as if he hadn’t
seen him in years, when in fact she knew from Emil’s social media feed that the
two had gone to the football game together the week before.

“Papa. This my friend I was telling you about, Mitchell.
Mitch, my stepfather, Bruno, and this is my sister, Jasmine.”

Jasmine issued a little sigh and fixed a pleasant smile on
her lips in preparation of meeting the latest victim in her mother’s
matchmaking scheme. She turned around and met the blue gaze of her brother’s
friend and felt lightning strike her in the head.

Holy shit.

She gasped in horror and her fingers relaxed. The tumbler of
scotch hit the Berber carpet with a thunk, splashing liquor over her Skechers.

“Jasmine?” her mother wailed and rushed toward the kitchen
as her stepfather and brother looked at her as if she’d gone mad.

“Sorry. Sorry,” Jasmine said and bent to pick up the glass
while surreptitiously eyeing Mitchell. Or as she knew him, Army.

Army? Her Army? What the hell was her submissive doing in
the home of her parents?

Granted, he looked just as shocked as she felt. His mouth
fell open and when she met his gaze again, he dropped to his knees just as she
had trained him.

Her eyes widened in warning and she gave the slightest shake
of her head.

“Oh, I,” he sputtered then gestured with a weak hand. “Can I
help in any way?”

“No, no,” Bruno said. “Let the girl clean up her mess.”

Heat hit her cheeks and she looked to the floor. Mess was an
understatement. Here she knelt in her jeans and V-neck sweater with her hair in
a loose ponytail and not a speck of makeup to hide the embarrassment she felt
burning her face. Part of her allure as a mistress was the mystery, the
fantasy. Men knew the moment she appeared in her costume that she was going to
transport them away from the everyday and make all of their wishes come true.
The only fantasy her current state of dress imparted was of clean dishes and a
vacuumed floor.

Oksana rushed back into the room with a damp towel, which
Jasmine accepted with a thank you and set about soaking up the liquid with the
same focus she used in setting a broken bone.

“Can I get you a drink, Mitch?” Bruno asked.

“Uh, sure.” He climbed to his feet. “Whatever you’re having
is fine.”

“Good. Three scotches, Jasmine,” Bruno ordered and settled
back into his chair and Emil followed suit on the coach.

She looked up and met Army’s—no, Mitchell’s—confused gaze.
She offered a tiny smile and mouthed the word “later” and gestured with her
head for him to take a seat. He nodded and followed the directive.

Manners dictated she serve the guest first and she watched
with a sad heart as Mitchell’s hands trembled when accepting the glass. She
could only imagine what he must be thinking. To serve her was an honor he never
hesitated in thanking her for, and now here she was, waiting on the men without
receiving a single word of gratitude in return. His gaze bobbed between her and
her family with indecisiveness carved in his brow. Clearly didn’t know how to
behave around her in this atmosphere, for she had taught him well. He never
moved a single muscle in her presence without her say-so, and now he was
supposed to forget the last year of his training and act as if they had never
met? She didn’t blame him for his confusion and felt horrible he was placed in
such a position.