Roxy Harte (10 page)

“How in the hell did you get in here?”

“I told Gerard I was worried. He agreed you’ve been very distant, very depressed. Together we summarized you may have done something tragic.”

“He let you in?” I turn off the shower and grab a towel.

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“You are a very rude man but I love you anyway.” Jackie bats her two-inch-long rainbow eyelashes at me. Her face is painted in a psychedelic wave. Bernard is her twin, though shorter, the top of his painted bald head even with her shoulders. “I’m glad you’re still naked. I brought clothes.”

With a wave of her hand, she calls Bernard forward. He lifts the costume. I tilt my head and frown.

“Where’s the rest?”

“You are going to look fabulous!”

“I am going to look ridiculous.”

She hands me the leather jockstrap, black lace-up boots, and leather biker cap.

“Chaps?” I ask, hopeful, as I step from the shower.

“You did that last year.” She pushes two leather armbands high on my biceps. “This year is your year to be seen…buff, awesome tan,” She glides her hand down my still damp abs then jerks the towel from my waist with a flourish. “God, you are a walking wet dream.”

Bernard leers.

“Out!” I push them both from the bathroom, close the door, and pull on my clothes, if you can call my jockstrap clothing. I’m not a prude, but I like my privacy. Clothing is a good thing and my usual attire even at the club is a T-shirt and leather pants, poet’s shirt and leather pants, or my standard tux. It’s not that I’m self-conscious of my body, I know my body is good even by San Francisco standards, which is above the national norm, but the problem is others noticing how good my body is. Which is to say, the average local leather-man checking me out is okay, the tourist who is someone’s housewife inIdaho wanting her picture taken with me, not okay.

I step from the bathroom and grab a studded leather chest harness from a hook inside the closet as an afterthought and pull it across my chest so that it crisscrosses between my pecs as I walk down the hallway. I know it’s a good effect when Jackie is turned speechless and Bernard’s mouth drops.

I guess I’m ready for the fair.

* * * *

We arrive early enough to check my booth, make some last-minute decisions and cage up the boys and girls who want to be the gilded attractions for the day. Nude and painted gold, they are spectacular. By the time I’m ready to walk away, assured the booth will survive without me, the streets are filling quickly.

The people buzz around us. It is so far a perfect mix of scantily clad leather-folk, strutting bare chests, pierced nipples, bare asses clad in chaps, and fetishists, no doubt hot and sweaty beneath their spandex, but smiling happily, and thousands of others who just fall under the category of beautiful. Couples stand out to me, whether male/male, female/female, or female/male. I sigh, longing for Kitten.

At one of the corner booths, I spot Frankie Perez, a friend who owns one of the leather bars south of Market. Walking over for a quick hello, I am surprised when he spins me around to check me out.

“Well, hel-l-o, Garrett Lawrence. Look at you.”

I blush and smile wide. “I know, I’m naked. I’ve never worn so few clothes in front of so many people.”

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“Do so often from now on—please.”

Frankie is my height and not a bad-looking man himself, although in one word, rugged would do it. Clad in tight jeans and leather chaps, three-day growth on his cheeks and slicked back blue-black hair, he is slightly irresistible, even though I’d never really looked at him as partner material.

What is wrong with me that every guy and girl within ten feet is suddenly turning my head? I wish Celia was here to take my mind off the man standing in front of me and my raging hard cock.

“So Garrett, are you in a mood to flog or be flogged today?”

Glancing at his hand, I see him playing with the thongs of a suede flogger hung from his belt. He looks down at the solid line beneath my jock strap and chuckles. When our eyes meet, we both share that
yeah
we should
moment, but my thoughts go straight to the gutter, not an in-broad-daylight glimmer of what I’d like to have happen.

“Gaa-rrrrrr-ett! O-v-ver he-re!”

I turn to see Jackie, waving at me and holding tight to Bernard’s leash.

I smile and wave, almost disappointed that I have an out if I want one. I turn back to Frankie. “Another time.”

“I’ll be looking forward to it.”

Walking away, I wink.

“Just what was that?” Jackie demands.

“Look, you can’t dress me up for the whole world to notice and then get mad when someone notices.”

“He has a point, Jacksy,” Bernard coos.

I cringe at the pet name and laugh my ass off when she smacks the back of his head and tugs his leash hard to follow her. Huffing, she commands me to, “Stay close.”

* * * *

I leave Jackie pouting at the Fair, but she has more than enough friends to keep her company, a major concert post-Fair she plans to attend and her annual post-Fair play party to host, beginning at her house around midnight or right after the concert. I assured her she wasn’t going to have time to miss me. The club is empty now. It’s early, too early for guests, and we expect a light crowd, at least until the Fair closes for the night. By midnight, we’ll be packed. I want to be ready for it.

Walking through the labyrinth of hallways, crossing dance floors, checking playrooms for needed repairs or dwindled stock, I go through the motions, detached. I love this place, my creation, mine and Tony’s, but with Tony gone I’ve overcompensated lack of love with my passion for Lewd Larry’s, creating more than we’d ever thought it could be. Only having met Kitten did I realize what I’d missed out on these last few years. Only since meeting her has there been a moment that I felt complete and now…she is gone. I close my eyes with a heavy sigh and lean my back into the dividing wall between the main dance floor
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and the hallway leading from the playrooms.

I’m not a jealous man, I never have been, but knowing that she is with him…I can’t stop thinking about her. After weeks of trying to forget her and almost succeeding, now, I want only to remember. I think about her constantly, her smile, too sad and too rare, her laugh, sarcastic and raw, and her eyes. If eyes are a window to the soul then hers lies in the great gateway between heaven and hell. I have never seen one more tortured.

I think about the times I bound her, I think about the time she spent in isolation, and during those times, her eyes changed. It was as if a great burden was lifted from her. Her soul was made free to soar and her eyes reflected true joy. Bliss.

I imagine Lord Fyre seeing that in her soul and know what he will do with it. He won’t go beyond the constraints of sanity but he will take her to the edge at every opportunity and, bringing her darkness, he will set her free. I’m not a jealous man, but I’m sad. More sad than I have a right to be. I sent her away.

When she needed me, I turned my back on her. Truly, do I deserve the second chance I crave?

I don’t. Especially considering the lust I felt today at the Fair. My God, so many beautiful men…and women. What started during my conversation with Frankie as a spark of lust flared all day, becoming frustrated lust. God, I’m horny.

“You’re early.”

“Shit!” I jump, startled by George Fitzpatrick’s silent entry. He chuckles, knowing he scared me. “I thought I was alone.”

“Obviously. That was some deep thought you wrapped yourself around.”

“Yes, I suppose.” I look at his face and find him studying me. The building is lit only by the filtered light coming from the second-story windows, giving the building a bluish cast, like dusk, or early dawn, though I know the sun outside shines high and bright. “So, what are you doing here so early?”

“Meeting someone in a bit. Complicated interrogation scene request and I wanted to make sure I have everything ready. You know me, neurotic, I don’t like surprises.”

“A regular?” I stand in the middle of the hallway, blocking his path, wanting him to stay and chat, though I haven’t wanted to make small talk with George for years. Today he’s a welcome distraction.

He nods but then his brow creases, showing he’s thinking too much now, working out the puzzle of me.

“I’m fine,” I assure him.

“I didn’t ask.”

I turn to walk away, agitated, wondering why the hell I’m not having sex. I should be having lots of sex. I imagine Celia is all but frustrated.

Chapter 6

“Her heart is given him, with all its love and truth. She would joyfully die with him, or, better than that, die for him…for the want of something to trust in…”

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-Charles Dickens, Our Mutual Friend

Kitten

He said only that he wants today to be special.
Special?
Alarm bells go off in my head. I am beginning to completely understand the mind of a sadist now that I’ve lived with Lord Fyre for two months. Special equals I am not going to enjoy this but he is going to have a fucking really good time and somewhere along the line, he is going to convince me that I am having a fucking good time too.

He leads me to the beach—I am naked, he is dressed in jeans. I follow him down three flights of stairs from the balcony off the living room, very conscious of just how naked I am. The wind is blowing very hard and I feel like I’m fighting my way through the force of it. The sky is dark, the ocean grey and frothy. I do not want to be outside with a storm brewing. Lord Fyre knows how much I hate storms and, because we are now outside, a storm on its way inland, and him looking forward to making today special, I know that this is trouble waiting to happen—and still, I haven’t learned my lesson. I’m still playing with sadists.

On the beach, I wonder how fast I could run for it if the storm hit fast and hard, adding three full flights of wooden staircase to get there. I look up to see his house. It is perched on a cliff and magnificent to look at from the beach. I can see the other balconies, the one off the master bedroom, seeming to hang midair over huge rocks. The ocean spray there is magnificent and I promise myself to remember to ask him to let me see the view from his bedroom balcony, because for now, he commanded me to be silent.

He leads me onto the large rocks. I shriek a little, ocean spray threatening me, the surface of the rocks slippery beneath my bare feet. He holds my hand and helps me to lie down on a large grey boulder.

Pulling a digital camera from his jacket pocket, he aims and shoots, directing me in poses that make me blush.

Tucking the camera into a pocket, he pulls a large coil of rope from his backpack. I eye the rope with trepidation as he approaches. A soft roll of thunder makes me forget the rope.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he commands, rolling me onto my stomach. He starts looping the rope around my wrists, behind my back, my arms bent. I am not happy about this, not happy at all, especially when I hear the rolling thunder louder, closer. Without thinking, I struggle, fighting harder until I can’t breathe, realizing only when the red haze clears my vision that he is lying on top of me, pinning me in a painful hold that takes my breath and makes my brain acknowledge that he is bigger, stronger, faster.

My heart pounds so hard it seems like it is trying to escape my chest.

He smoothes his hand down my arm, soft strokes that pull moans from my throat. Every caress, every whisper seems amplified in sensual echoes that course through my bound body. I am ashamed that I want him so desperately. I do want him. My body needs him, throbbing awakened parts of me that I never realized could ache with need before cry out for his touch, my bared shoulder, the length of my spine…innocent glances of flesh touching flesh course through me to make me writhe in painful pleasure.

“Better?” he asks, kissing my temple, releasing the hold he has on me only enough for me to acknowledge with a nod that we can continue. He loops rope around my chest, above and below my breasts, winding also around the outside of my upper arms, pulling snug, then snugger. Something inside my brain snaps a little and I feel the panic coming back. My heart pumps high in my throat and I want to scream, but I don’t. I squirm on my stomach, ridiculously testing the bonds as he loops rope around my
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waist and hips, knotting and twisting and wrapping as he descends my body, encasing my legs in a rope net. “Hold still.”

“I can’t.” I say, shaking, breaking my silence, trying to not freak out. “The storm.”

“Stop worrying,” he commands, pulling his camera from his jacket pocket. “I’m here with you. Nothing is going to hurt you. Trust me.”

I shake my head, unable to quit worrying, and he takes three quick shots before depositing the camera back into his pocket. Kneeling, he pulls the length of rope between my legs and starts weaving the pattern around my middle. “God, stop worrying. I’m not feeding you to the sharks! It’s called Shibari.

Haven’t you ever heard of it?”

I nod, yes, of course, anyone who had hung out as long as I had at
Inappropriate Voices
, the underground alternative lifestyle newspaper I used to work for, would have heard of it.

“Then you know it’s Japanese erotic bondage. Have you ever experienced it?”

“Heard of it, haven’t done it,” I reply shortly, turning my head to stare at the sky.

“Nice,” he leers, kissing my temple. “Your first time and I get to be the one to tie you up.”

The first real crack of thunder sounds in the distance. I panic, trying to sit up, succeeding only in flopping around like a fish out of water.