The Denim Dom (Siren Publishing Sensations) (14 page)

She chewed on that. “Okay, that makes sense, but I’m still having trouble with it.”

“See, that’s the thing. It’s okay if you have trouble with it. You don’t need to understand it to agree it’s okay for consenting adults to engage in it.”

“It’s not okay when I want to write a fair article about it that can educate others. How am I supposed to educate anyone when I feel like I can’t even educate myself?”

His green gaze seemed to study her. He looked like he needed a shave, stubble filling in the areas around his mustache and goatee. He slowly scratched at his chin for a moment.

“I think,” he said after a moment to gather his thoughts, “that if you are truly dedicated to doing the topic justice, you will. You don’t necessarily have to understand the whys of it. Maybe it even makes you a better choice to write the article, because you don’t have an axe to grind and you are deliberately trying to give it a fair treatment.”

She swallowed a little nervously at that. She did have an axe to grind. A battleaxe of barbarian proportions, as a matter of fact. But she also knew these people had nothing to do with that and she didn’t hold it against them, either.

“Do you think next weekend’s classes will help me any?”

“Probably. You’ll get to see more things, learn more, meet more people. I’m sure Loren gave you her newbie 101 talk the first time you guys met, right?” Shayla nodded. “She’s absolutely right,” he continued. “There are so many different flavors and ways people practice BDSM that it’s impossible to lump them all together. They can’t even lump themselves together without someone inevitably pissing in the pool because others aren’t doing it ‘their’ way. I call them ‘won twue wayers,’ because they can’t accept that there are many ways to do things the ‘right’ way in BDSM.

“If the individuals in the dynamic are consenting adults, and happy with the way things are, and no one’s being harmed, that’s all that matters.”

“That’s almost verbatim what she said.”

“Well, that’s because despite what the won twue way asshats think, it’s all that matters.”

“I feel woefully unprepared and unqualified to write this.” She ran her finger down the spiral spine of the notebook. “I’m scared I’m going to screw it up and piss everyone off that I’ve just met.”

He smiled kindly at her and reached across the table to squeeze her hand. “You’ll do fine. I don’t mind reviewing it for you before you submit it, and I’m sure Ross and Loren won’t mind, either.”

“I’m glad you feel so confident.”

* * * *

Tony once again got the feeling there was more to it, some deeper issue that she wasn’t ready to reveal. He wouldn’t press her about it, but he wished she’d open up to him. He’d carefully observed her the night before while she watched scenes play out. If he wasn’t mistaken, he’d spotted more than a bit of longing on her face.

And a bit of fear, too.

Fear of what, he wasn’t sure. He knew from years in the lifestyle that people sometimes feared the part of themselves that desired the BDSM lifestyle. It usually flew in the face of what had been drilled into them about how “good” people behaved in life. It was shocking and shameful and a disgusting display of sexuality and against all moral behavior, or so they’d been told.

It was also the most fun some people ever had in their lives.

He did not want to scare Shayla off. “You said you were writing a series of articles, right?”

She nodded.

“Why not start with a general overview, using quotes from me and Loren and Ross, and then lead into deeper topics in later articles? At least it will buy you a little time and breathing room.”

She finally met his gaze. “That’s not a bad idea.”

“You can always feel free to bounce stuff off me. And we’ll have next Saturday to talk more during and after class.” Their waitress returned to take their meal orders. “Deal?”

She rewarded him with a tentative smile. “Deal.”

Their conversation ranged wide afield from the topic of BDSM for the rest of their dinner. He suspected she hovered dangerously close to an overloaded mindset, one where she could easily tip to either side of all-in or fuck-it-all if pushed too hard in one direction or the other. He desperately didn’t want it to be the fuck-it-all side she landed on.

He found himself far too attracted to her to allow that to happen if he had any say in the matter.

Shayla wasn’t sure her talk with Tony had helped her comprehension any, but it hadn’t hurt. At least now she felt more relaxed about how to approach the initial article. It would be a jumping-off point to the rest of the series, one inviting the reader to come along for the ride without making any conclusions one way or the other.

A little before lunch on Monday, Kimberly stopped by Shayla’s cubicle. “We’re heading out to eat. Want to come with?”

Shayla stared at her computer screen where another article stared at her. She hadn’t even tried to start her first BDSM article yet. “No. I really need to work.”

“Tell me about the club,” Kimberly said. “What was it like?” Kimberly had been the only one she’d told about going to the class and club. Mostly as a backup in case she didn’t show up at work on Monday, although she rationally hadn’t expected any problems.

Shayla shrugged. “Everyone was really nice. It wasn’t anything like I thought it’d be.”

“Did you try anything at the class?”

“I didn’t get naked, if that was your question.”

Kimberly grinned. “That wasn’t my question, but it was going to be my next question. So what did you try?”

The memory of Tony working over her shoulders with the wire whisks flashed into mind. She hoped she didn’t blush. “I didn’t really try anything like what you’re thinking. I tested a couple of the implements on myself. There’s a lot more pleasure than pain in what I saw people doing. Does that make sense?”

Kimberly shrugged. She grinned and dropped her voice. “Makes sense to me, but then I’m kind of a spanko.” The other woman left as someone called her name, leaving Shayla to wonder about her statement.

Tuesday morning, Shayla managed to turn in an article about a local art exhibit going on at New College without thinking once about riding crops, or whips, or Tony Daniels’ delicious green eyes.

Bill Melling stopped by her cubicle. “Good article. Thanks.”

She nodded. “No problem.” When he eyed her for a moment she knew what he wanted to ask. “And the other assignment is coming along fine,” she said before he could. “But it’s probably going to be several articles more than I originally thought.”

“Okay. Good. We’ll take them all.”

She finished her day by clearing out her inbox and handling edits on another article. Her drive home was spent thinking about what to add to her grocery list. She hated shopping, but was nearly out of milk.
I’d rather go home and make a list and make one trip than stop for stuff and have to go back later.

She parked in front of her unit and left her stuff in the car, locking it. She had a short walk down to her mailbox and enjoyed the exercise. Not to mention the grounds were lovely, and spending a few minutes outside in nature helped relax her. She felt pretty good when she reached the sheltered alcove holding the mailboxes and opened hers with the key.

That feeling exploded as she shuffled through her mail, her gaze falling upon the return address of one envelope buried amongst advertisements from businesses welcoming her to the area and her regular catalogs and bills.

James Tavery.

She didn’t realize her hands shook until she tried to slip her thumb under the flap and rip it open. She finally managed it. Inside, she found a check wrapped in a sheet of paper, upon which he’d handwritten a note in black ink with his tight, economical script.

Rather than read it there with her breath coming in gasps, her legs shaking, and on the verge of tears, she hurried back to her apartment and slammed the door shut behind her before she unfolded the paper.

Dear Shay,

I don’t know if you’ll read this or not, and I won’t blame you if you don’t. I know I screwed up. I’m sorry. I have a problem. I admit it. You were too good for me and instead of going and getting help the first time I fucked up even more because I thought I could control it.

I’m not stupid enough to think you’ll believe me when I say I’m really changing this time. I found a group meeting I’ve started going to twice a week for porn addiction. I’m looking around for a psychologist who maybe can help me get my head on straight.

I don’t know what I’m asking for other than forgiveness. I’ve taken a second job, on nights and weekends, to repay every dime I owe you. I know you could have pressed charges against me and didn’t, and I won’t make you sorry for deciding that.

I’m sorry for what I did and wish I could take it all back. I lost the best thing to ever come into my life and I’m going to regret it for the rest of my days with every breath I take.

Love,

James.

She held the check in trembling fingers and looked at it. Another five hundred dollars.

Her knees unhinged. Unable to hold herself up, she slid down the door and cried.

* * * *

She pulled herself together and went to retrieve her stuff from the car. She’d already downed her first beer when she remembered she’d wanted to go to the store.

Too late now.
She never drove after drinking, even if it was only a little bit.

Now, all she felt like doing as she stared at the envelope, letter, and check on her counter was drink and cry.

Fuck it.

She pulled another beer out of the fridge, and a turkey pot pie from the freezer. She’d go to the store tomorrow after work.

By the time she was settled on her couch with her notebook and laptop on the coffee table in front of her and beer number three ready to consume, and a steaming pot pie on a paper plate, she’d nearly managed to forget about James.

Although the third beer more than anything was the catalyst for that.

She put the TV on Cartoon Network and stared at her notes as she worked on the pot pie. She needed a good opening hook for her lede. That was what she was focused on when her cell phone rang.

Dammit.

She’d left it on the counter. She reached it before it kicked over to voice mail, but her eye caught sight of the envelope from James on her counter as she answered. “Hello?” She spun around and returned to the couch.

“Shayla? It’s Loren.”

“Hi.” She drew her legs up under her on the couch. “How are you?”

“I just wanted to check in and see how you were doing after the other night.”

“Good. I’m good. I actually had a sit-down with Tony Sunday night.”

“Oh? How’d it go?”

“He seems like a really nice guy. Very patient with my questions. Thank you for introducing me to him.”

“Awesome. Listen, I know you work, but Leah, Tilly, and I usually get together on Thursday mornings for a girls’ day. We’re going up to visit Clarisse this week to take her out to brunch to celebrate the baby. We wanted to know if maybe you could get the time off to come with us?”

It was on the tip of Shayla’s tongue to say no. That she had too much to do, too many things on her plate. But it would be a lie because she knew Bill Melling encouraged his staff to take exactly these kinds of opportunities if it meant their assignments would benefit.

“Let me check with my boss in the morning, but I think I can make it.”

“Great! Just send me a text and I’ll let you know when and where to meet up with us. You can ride with us if you want.”

Something about Loren’s hopeful tone stayed any hesitation on Shayla’s part. “Sure. That’d be great. Thanks.”

Shayla got off the phone and stared at her laptop, where she’d opened a blank document. With the pot pie growing cold, she leaned forward and typed.

Last weekend, a group of friends gathered around a table at a local restaurant and discussed their week, their jobs, their lives, graciously inviting this writer into their inner circle. Nothing distinguished them from anyone else in the restaurant.

Except that an hour later, after dinner ended, they all met up at a local private BDSM dungeon club to continue their evening.

She grabbed her beer and took a long swallow as she reread the opening. Slowly nodding, she set her beer aside and started typing again.

Two hours later she had a thousand words, a cold pot pie, and her beer buzz was a thing of the past. Happy with the rough draft, she carried the plate and empty beer bottle to the kitchen.

Her feet stopped cold at the sight of the letter on her counter.

Dammit. I really need to get the fuck over that.

She dumped the trash and scooped the letter and check up. The check she stuck in her checkbook after filling out a deposit slip for it. She’d drop it by the bank in the morning. The envelope she ripped into tiny pieces and threw away.

The letter…

She left it folded but couldn’t bring herself to rip it up.