Authors: Christina Crooks
Rough Play (2 page)
She looked around with a careful, vigilant gaze.
Nobody.
Freaking herself out over nothing. The lock picker was long gone.
She opened the mailbox quickly. Bills, bills, ads, bills . . . aha, a big card.
Charlotte pushed in the outgoing mail—bills plus a wedding card to her latest satisfied client.
She returned to her apartment. She dumped everything with the keys and ripped open the big envelope eagerly. Another thank-you card. It came with wedding photos from some exotic island with lots of sand and palm trees. Charlotte grinned at the sight of the former client wearing nothing but a bikini bottom and a big smile. The card’s handwritten message waxed eloquent with gratitude. The woman promised referrals. The clients usually did. Sometimes they even remembered to do it.
Charlotte gnawed her knuckle with the ongoing worry even as she enjoyed Tina’s clear happiness in the photo. She remembered watching the couple’s first movie. The woman’s expression had stretched into sexual ecstasy as that very same smiling gentleman, now wearing colorful swim trunks as he posed casually next to her, had screwed her enthusiastically.
Some women had all the X-rated movie luck.
2
A
fter locking the front door behind her, then checking to make sure it still felt like a solid and secure barrier, Charlotte bent to scoop up cell phone parts.
fter locking the front door behind her, then checking to make sure it still felt like a solid and secure barrier, Charlotte bent to scoop up cell phone parts.
Battery, plastic backing, triangular chip of plastic, phone. She inserted the battery in its slot. It stuck out a little and the plastic battery cover wouldn’t go back on.
She tested the phone. At least it worked.
Which was a good thing since her last client would call any minute. An “urgent” session.
Charlotte snorted. Everything was urgent to Gail. Despite providing full-service phone sessions to the woman for months, mostly on Gail’s fickle schedule, no prospects for a match had presented themselves. Charlotte had to respect Gail’s urgency. The failure was embarrassing and a little baffling to Charlotte.
So much so that Charlotte had rearranged her burgerflipping job schedule to accommodate Gail’s call.
She checked the time again. Any minute.
Charlotte sank onto her old couch, one of the few pieces of furniture that had made it onto the moving truck with the many boxes of her hastily packed stuff.
Her right hand slid over her thigh, hesitated, then crept to her leg’s outer edge. Through the denim, her fingers read the lumpy old scar like a strange Braille communication. It said nothing good.
Charlotte shuddered, forced her hand away from her thigh.
She thought of her decrepit neighborhood and shabby apartment. She’d expected more success in her business after the divorce. Her matchmaking skill was unique.
She had to grow her business. Her ads, her networking and fliers, nothing worked well enough. Word of mouth had netted her a steady trickle of clients, but even that was drying up.
The good news: All her other clients were deliriously happy, and the fact delighted her. The bad news: Gail was the one who remained unmatched.
Charlotte peered at her phone. Late again.
C’mon, Gail. Let’s get it over with.
C’mon, Gail. Let’s get it over with.
In the near future, she promised herself, she’d have so many clients she’d have to beat them away with a stick. Nicer clients than Gail. Which wouldn’t be difficult.
As if conjured, the phone rang, flashing Gail’s too-familiar number.
Too many months, too few repeat dates.
It wasn’t the woman’s looks, at least not completely. Gail was a pretty, well-preserved thirty-five-year-old. The few crow’s feet certainly didn’t create an online-dating deal breaker. Especially with Charlotte’s help writing the flirty e-mails.
No, the problem began once Gail met the men. Her attitude repelled them.
Her attitude repelled everyone, including Charlotte.
But Gail always paid Charlotte on time.
Charlotte flipped the phone open. “Hello, Gail.”
Gail’s brisk voice drilled into Charlotte’s ear. “Hi. How are you? I’m so glad you were available. I sent winks to all the Heartlink candidates. I sent questionnaires to the Connections ones. Nothing all week. No winks, no notes, no date for this weekend.”
Charlotte spoke carefully. “Was there something urgent you wanted to discuss, too?”
“That’s not urgent enough? You know the statistic. A woman over thirty has a better chance of being struck by lightning than getting married and having kids.”
“I don’t think that’s quite accurate.”
“Trust me, it is. It’s definitely getting worse as I get older. Thirty-six next week. Guys simply prefer younger women. Good thing I like older guys, huh? I just wish they weren’t so picky. Sometimes I don’t know why I keep looking.”
Charlotte knew exactly why Gail kept looking. Unlike herself, Gail still believed in love.
Gail added, “I sometimes wonder if he’s really out there. My Mr. Right.”
The rare wistfulness in the woman’s voice tugged at Charlotte’s heartstrings. “Okay, look. Everything will be great. We’ve barely scratched the—”
Gail cut her off. “Enough of the pep talk. I e-mailed you the latest batch.”
From experience, Charlotte knew what Gail’s irritated tone meant. It meant this would be a challenging session.
Charlotte would’ve rubbed her temples, but her arm was bent at an awkward angle to keep the phone in position against her ear. She cocked her head to the right, pinning Gail’s voice to a spot between shoulder and head. She liked to keep her hands free to type.
Time for Charlotte to say something sweet and enthusiastic. Gail sounded positively sour. “All right, Gail! Good job. I’m sure everything will work out. You’re a great catch for the right guy.” She tried to ignore Gail’s rude noise of exasperation. “You just need to be patient. Let’s see . . .” Charlotte typed on her notes, then clicked on Gail’s e-mailed list of men found online.
“Uh-huh. Yes . . .” Charlotte reviewed the images and profiles of handsome, young, rich, intelligent single guys.
Problematic.
“These seem awfully, um, athletic for someone like you. You’re an ‘unashamed homebody who enjoys lounging and cooking.’ That first one, Reggiedawg? He looks so conceited and tacky with his shirt off. He has a smug smile, don’t you think so? Hmmm,” she added as if she’d just noticed. “Most of them are your age or younger than you, Gail.”
“You think the guys I pick are too good for me, don’t you?”
“I didn’t say that. These just aren’t, um, they’re not the environmentally concerned, house-handy, pro-family, progressive, activist, children-loving, vegetarian type you want, mostly. But, he’s out there, somewhere. We’ll find someone wonderful for you. You’re smart, funny, you’re super cute when you wear feminine clothes that show off your curves—”
“I’m dyslexic, not stupid. I know my limitations. The guy has to have viable healthy sperm—nothing snipped yet—and not already be married, or bitterly divorced and done with having kids. That means younger. Otherwise I’d be looking at the older guys like I’d prefer. You’re supposed to help me with writing notes and flirting. You’re brilliant at that part, so let’s stick with what you know.”
Her words stung. “Whatever you say.” Charlotte’s cheeks hurt from keeping the smile on her face. Clients said they could hear it when she smiled on the phone. She was afraid if she let the smile drop even for a moment that Gail would hear her exasperation.
Everyone has burdens, Charlotte suddenly wanted to tell her. Even me. Especially me. I’m all alone, too.
Charlotte quickly rubbed her temples, even at the cost of a sudden small crick in her neck and an ominous small cracking noise from the phone. Her muscles and her nervous system always objected to Gail.
She’d nearly told Gail exactly what she thought of clients who assumed paying her meant they could treat her like a slave.
She had a low tolerance for people who treated her like a slave.
Every woman has a slave’s heart.
Cory’s words rolled around in her head as if she were still gagged and bound at his feet and forced to listen to his feverish rants.
Cory’s words rolled around in her head as if she were still gagged and bound at his feet and forced to listen to his feverish rants.
The ordeal had been her fault.
Charlotte raised her voice, made herself speak aggressively. A little more like Gail. “Didn’t you have a date over the weekend with ‘Spuntopping’?”
Silence for a moment. Then, unexpectedly, Gail laughed. “You remember how he’d written all about cooking in his profile? And we thought ‘Spuntopping’ was a kind of pie topping, and we came up with that clever line about cooking? Well. He meant an entirely different kind of topping.”
When Charlotte didn’t say anything, Gail explained. “Topping, in certain sexual circles, is the controlling activity of the person calling the shots in a sadomasochistic relationship. The so-called ‘top,’ or ‘dom,’ is the one who chains you up and whips you.”
That wasn’t exactly true, Charlotte reflected. Tops and doms did more than whip you. They tried their best to turn you into a slave-hearted woman who secretly craved to be conquered. And if he was any good, he succeeded.
She wished she didn’t know quite so much about S and M.
“Wow,” she said for Gail’s benefit. “Guess that date was a dud, huh?”
“What do you think?”
Something in Gail’s voice narrowed Charlotte’s eyes. “Was it a dud, Gail?”
“I suppose. There was no love connection with that guy. But . . .” Gail fell silent.
Uh-oh. “Not a romance then, but friendship?” Please let it be just friendship. Charlotte felt a ball of dread begin to form in her belly. “But what, Gail?”
“But it made me curious.”
Nature has designed a woman to know curiosity, to seek out and relish man’s mastery.
“Curious about tops and bottoms? No.” Charlotte found herself too startled for more than the simple denial.
“I know how it sounds. But I did some research. Did you know women can be tops? They’re called dominatrices. And there’s something called switches, people who switch from top to bottom depending on their mood, though there’s a contingent that believe switches aren’t a valid category.”
Charlotte stared at the phone. Gail sounded like an encyclopedia entry. She couldn’t truly be interested in the fetish scene. Or anyone in it.
But Gail continued. “I’ve found a dating site catering to the fetish crowd. I’ve made a profile,” Gail declared in her most stubborn voice. “I’d like to date some male bottoms and I need your help.”
“Okay. Okay. Oh, boy.”
“Will this be a problem for you?” Gail’s voice turned icy.
“It might be.”
“Really? And why is that?” Any icier and Charlotte’s ear would have frostbite. Her mind whirled.
Of the dozens, if not hundreds of normal online men they’d looked at together, none had triggered Charlotte’s X-rated movies on Gail’s behalf.
It wasn’t unreasonable, at this point, to explore fringe groups.
Gail did need Charlotte’s help. And Charlotte did need Gail’s money.
And none of it had anything whatsoever do with Charlotte’s ex-husband’s violent foray into BDSM. Her fingers crept again to the raised scar. Much healthier not to think about it.
Except that Gail was making her think about it.
“Gail, you can’t believe everything you read on the Internet. You don’t want to get involved with those sorts of people.”
“Explain yourself,” Gail demanded, her tone of affront all but singeing Charlotte’s ear. Icy to scorching in an instant.
Charlotte remained silent, intending for diplomatic restraint to showcase Gail’s own rudeness. Didn’t the woman hear herself being so pushy? Charlotte hoped she wouldn’t need to elaborate.
“I’m waiting.”
Vain hope. “Okay,” Charlotte began, reluctance making her words slow and heavy. “There are many good men out there. Sweet, emotionally mature, funny, responsible men. Non-deviant men. Non–psychologically abnormal men who have dangerous ideas about pain. I’ve paired off dozens of men and women who consider themselves gender equals. We don’t have to bring sexual power exchange into the dating process. It’s not safe.”
“You said it might be a problem for you to help me with this. Why?”
Tension sank its pinching claws more deeply into Charlotte’s shoulders. Gail was putting her on the spot. Should Charlotte tell her? No. She’d never told anyone about that side of Cory. She never would.
She’d never even talked about it with Cory himself. No need to curdle their amicable split with recriminations.
She pressed the phone to her ear tightly and tried one last, token resistance. She smiled so Gail would hear it. “Bringing torture instruments into the bedroom sounds scary. Things could go wrong. Aren’t you worried about winding up at the mercy of some BTK serial killer?”
Silence.
Charlotte dared to hope it had worked.
Then Gail laughed again. “You so need to get out more. It’s not like that.”
Charlotte closed her eyes.
“And, there are a lot more attractive, available guys at CollaredNow. I want to do this. Can you go there? Now, please,” Gail added, as if Charlotte was a schoolchild needing constant firm instruction. “I have a list of possibles.”
Charlotte made her fingertips lightly tap the keyboard and she found the site. This was just the Internet. Nothing to be afraid of. In fact, Gail would probably get an eyeful of some hardcore bondage pictures, maybe see some photos of rope suspension or blood play. The woman would come to her senses.
Gail’s voice raced ahead of her, directing her on the unfamiliar site. “Let’s see. First one: ‘Master Martin.’ ”
With the memory of her own S and M experience fresh in her mind, Charlotte was prepared to eviscerate the candidate to disqualify him. Her arms hairs were raised, and the site’s accent photos of ropes, handcuffs, and spanking benches were giving her the heebie-jeebies.
So, she was more than a little surprised that when she pulled up “Master Martin” she had the sudden and visceral urge to keep him for herself.
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