Closer and Closer Page 2

  “Walt, seriously.”

  “Luuuuu…no. I’ve got paperwork to do, and after that I’ve got to clean up.” He crossed the small front room of his forestry service cabin, tugging the hem of his damp green polo shirt from his pants. “I’m tired. I’m definitely sunburned and probably dehydrated. The last thing I want to do is follow you around CPEP all night, playing good-boy-go-fetch-pretty-bottom for you.”

  “Hmmmm…pretty bottoms. Oh! Speaking of hydrating—Paul’s having his first hot tub soiree of the year after the club closes.” Lu’s purr did its intended job of communicating the possibility of carnal delights in a suburban hot tub.

  Same people, different night. Same kinks, different backdrop, and more of Paul Saldino’s one true way to kink. The thought was nearly as unappetizing as a beige slab of apple cinnamon flavored, predigested whey protein.

  “Hey, I think my phone’s running out of steam, darlin’. I gotta run.”

  Toeing his dirt-smeared olive pants from his ankles, Walt tossed the rest of the protein bar atop a heavy text, Invaded Ecosystems: Discovery and Management, splayed open on his nightstand, and a stack of unopened mail. A dip in the Saldinos’ overpopulated hot tub wasn’t the way he wanted to spend his Saturday evenings these days, and a fake dinner was more than he could stomach.

  “I’m not letting this go, Walt. You’re going down to Charlotte tonight. I don’t want to spend my night DMing alone. And you told TK you’d do a Florentine demo, don’t you remember?”

  “Gonna take a shower, Lu. Careful goin’ down to town, okay?”

  “The charming and concerned country boy act doesn’t work on me,” she sneered. “I’ll see you in—”

  Before Lucy could tear into him again, Walt checked out of the conversation, his hand falling away from his ear. He tossed his phone to the bed. Hot water—and a good quantity of it—spilling over his dusty, dry head was the best idea Lucy’d had in months. Then he would sleep for twelve hours or so, alone and by the grace of his own sanity, then another Saturday night would be done.

  “Wake the hell up, Wanda.”

  An unholy clatter followed, making the rusted hinges on the front door screech in protest. And grumbling. Not the yawls of a hungry four-legged park resident, either.

  “You’d better be dressed.”

  What was this with the snapping orders and the damn attitude?

  Walt exhaled heavily and rubbed at his eyes. After his shower, he’d jacked up the window unit air conditioner to high, turned on his ceiling fan and fallen asleep, sprawled across his unmade bed with no more than a towel looped around his hips. In the meantime, the remains of day had faded to night, and apparently Lucy had driven the twenty miles that separated her glass and steel house overlooking Lake Arden from Walt’s cabin, tucked at a respectable distance from the Poplar Branch Visitor Center.

  From somewhere under the rumpled sheets, Walt’s phone buzzed. Once he managed to fish it from beneath him, he brought it to his mouth, licking at dry lips. “Waaa-hell, Lu?”

  “You’re mouth-breathing in my ear and it’s not doing a thing for me. Open the door.”

  On the tail of her voice, another sharp rap on the cabin door pierced the Saturday evening stillness. The visitor center staff had gone, and the overnight guard came on down at the campground an hour before.

  Oh, hell no.

  Walt staggered from his bed, smoothing down the tails of the soggy towel tangled around him. His hair was pressed in a damp mat along his temple, and if that taut stretch of skin was a reliable indicator, he’d drooled all over his cheek as he slept.

  Damn stubborn woman.

  He shuffled to the front room, his phone tucked into his chin, scratching at a new mosquito bite right behind his knee as he moved. May was too early for a mosquito bloom, especially this close to his front door.

  At the moment, a bigger bloodthirsty female was taking up residency on his front porch. In the night shadows, at least six-foot-three—if you counted those sky-high red heels she was perched on—of corseted, expertly made-up, fine-smelling blonde stalked toward him and pushed her way through his front door.

  “Aw, Louis, you look a bit put out. What’s wrong?”

  “You’re coming with me.”

  Lu strutted inside, scowling at him as she passed. No way to deny it, the effect of Lucinda Johns nearly meeting him eye-to-eye, and in full-out Domina plumage was impressive. But it didn’t intimidate Walt. Leaning against the front door, he watched her first performance of the evening, stretching along with his deep yawn. The towel slithered down his hips.

  Doma Lucia wasn’t the only Top who knew how to put on a show.

  “Well, hello, Miss Johns. I don’t seem to have you on my engagement calendar this evening.” Eyeing her, he folded his arms over his chest and grinned. “If you’ll just step back to the veranda, I’ll pull out my appointment book and see when my next opening—”

  “Shut it with that ‘Miss Johns’ shit, or the toe of these pretty, pretty pumps will find your next opening.” Before he could catch her, she snatched the towel away, slapping it against Walt’s stomach. “Now climb into your party dress and let’s go. After your demo, you’re working the atrium and entrance hallway. You can play welcome wagon to all that hot housewife ass that keeps showing up at the club these days.”

  Walt shrugged and pushed at the screen door with his knee, standing aside for Lucy to exit, hopefully in a minute or less. He wasn’t in the mood for a social call. The refusal to head down to Charlotte was non-negotiable too. Absolutely non-negotiable.

  “I’m beat, Lu. Tell TK I’m sorry.”

  Lucy perched on the edge of his desk. She wasn’t going anywhere, damn her.

  They stared, neither moving, nothing but the night sounds and their breath huffing at each other breaking their obstinate silence.

  “You’d better close that door before you let every bug in your wilderness wonderland inside, stupid.”

  Walt stepped away from the screen door. It banged closed, stuttering against the worn doorjamb until it settled.

  Lucy turned her sultriest, doe-eyed, come-hither look on him. She even fucking fluttered her eyelashes, just like she had when they were sophomores at Clemson. Like an idiot nineteen-year-old with too much testosterone, he’d actually tried to get her to go out with him, only to be set in his place in front of their entire calculus class.

  “C’mon. I’ll even get you a cookie,” she said.

  Outside, crickets sang.

  “Fuck you, Louis.” Walt growled and crossed the room, flinging his wet towel toward Lucy as he passed. She crossed her legs with a self-satisfied smirk and smiled after him.

  “Not if my life depended on it, Wanda.”

  Chapter Two

  I WASN’T SURPRISED in the least. The soundtrack for the Charlotte Power Exchange Party, LLC, held at an outwardly nondescript club known as Area 51, included Nine Inch Nails.

  Certainly, I didn’t expect a sound system blasting James Taylor warbling about his imminent arrival within the North Carolina state boundaries, but the twenty-year-old, wailing, bass-accented electronica was an obvious, if outdated, choice. And the black vinyl sofas and steel gridwork suspended between the lobby and more intimate rooms of CPEP did nothing to alleviate the realization that this was exactly what I’d expected a fetish club would look like.

  Bad decorating choices or not, Area 51 was the end of my path. Or the beginning of a new one. It was spread out before me, lined in matte-black cinderblock walls and lit with rows of recessed lighting.

  Happy laughter rose around several clusters of arrivals, and numerous sets of arms opened and closed in warm, familiar hugs. I glanced over my shoulder again, looking for Claire. My attempt at easy nonchalance probably translated as skittish anxiety to the number of people who milled around the club’s vestibule. A younger woman, one who had been introduced to me as Powderpuff at the group’s monthly meet-up—or, as they called it, “munch”—I’d attended two weeks ago, squealed as sh
e flung herself into the leather-vested torso of a grandfatherly-looking man. He chuckled, patting her fuchsia hot-pants-clad behind as she draped her arms around his neck.

  Powderpuff was Dr. Paul Saldino, DDS’s, girlfriend. Her real name was Tracy. Or was it Tricia? Or Tessa? It was a T-name, one I always associated with the very sort of woman—girl?—who might select Powderpuff as an Internet handle. I’d missed most of Powderpuff’s particulars because I was struggling to swallow the anemic Applebee’s iced tea I’d just sipped when Claire introduced her to me as her husband’s girlfriend.

  Who lived in their guest bedroom.

  Until she worked a few things out.

  I felt movement behind me and turned from the scene in the vestibule back to the front desk where I waited for the club owner, a woman known by the much simpler nickname of TK.

  “All right, there’s your six-month club pass, still nice and warm from the laminator. Now, if you’ll just put your arm out for me I’ll get you tagged and numbered…” TK raised a randy smile toward me, shaking an electric blue plastic band. “Can’t have a newbie wandering off unaccounted for, can I?”

  Newbie.

  Clenching my molars together, I forced a soft giggle. She was making another small joke, I reminded myself. Probably attempting to jostle my surely obvious anxiety. She’d been the same during my repeated phone calls, using a gentle tease to help me progress through my questions and concerns.

  Claire insisted she had introduced me to Area 51’s owner the same evening I’d met Powderpuff, but most of the evening—my first munch—was a blur. TK’s spiky, chartreuse flattop and black skull-and-crossbones bowling shirt were a temporary disconnect when she reminded me we’d shared spinach queso dip as we discussed the merits of latex body paint. The same smoky-warm drawl I’d heard over the phone was familiar, though, and it soothed my flaring nerves.

  After all, I was a newbie.

  “Thank you.” I returned her smile as I tested the span of vinyl encasing my wrist, and snapped it lightly against my skin. “Do you know where I can find Clai—um, I mean clover?”

  “Clai-clover?”

  God, such a newbie. Already forgetting rules, breaking their protocols, and I was barely inside, still standing by the front door. Claire was nicknamed—or her scene name, as she called it—clover. Short for HisLuckyclover. Emphasis on the lowercase c, as dictated by the conventions of her Sir, Master Lucky—who still resided in my mind as Dr. Paul Saldino, DDS.

  TK chuckled at me and, after a conspiratorial wink, rose over the counter on her toes, indicating a doorway across the congested lobby. “She’s in the dressing room getting ready to do a demo. Told me to send you her way. Over there, past the slave cages.”

  “I see.”

  “Oh you will, sweetie. You surely will,” she drawled, offering her hand with a chuckle. “Nice to see you in person again, Reboot. You go have fun, now.”

  Reboot. I had to choose a scene name when TK added me to the guest list. I couldn’t really dream up any fluffy-fuzzy ethereal adjectives to describe myself while I ground my teeth that afternoon. Waiting for the test servers at ThinkMine’s Los Altos headquarters to recognize a new software install script I’d written had already stretched my patience to its limit. Since I was sitting in my cubicle at the time, watching a line of code hanging there for what felt like hours, Reboot seemed like the most obvious choice.

  And unfortunately, BlueScreenofDeath was taken.

  “Oh, Wally, you came!”

  On the heels of her quick, bright smile, Claire stilled. She turned to Paul, lowering her gaze, waiting for his notice or dismissal or permission. Inhaling deeply, Walt stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans and scanned the toes of his boots instead of watching her wait for her husband to give her leave.

  Seconds went by. Nothing but silence. Claire’s ever-patient waiting and silence.

  Walt ground his teeth. Asshole. When did it get like this between them? When did he decide she had to worry about every move she made? That was what pleased him as her Master? Fucking bullshit.

  Finally Claire cleared her throat. It was a soft, dainty sound. So much like her.

  “Sir?”

  Paul had been a friend. Claire was still one—a very close one. Like Lu and a few others Walt considered family and thought of in his private moments as my people.

  She was so decent and light-filled, so full of belief in the people she cared for, he couldn’t help feel protective of her. Problematic when the biggest threat to Claire was her husband, the man she saw as Owner and Master.

  “What is it, girl?”

  “May I talk to Walt about his demo?”

  “Demo?” For the first time in recent memory, Paul and Walt seemed to be on the same page about something, both clueless about the particulars of this demo that had been on the CPEP schedule for months, according to Lucy and TK and Claire. Turning away from the circle of newcomers still adjusting to their bright blue new member wristbands, Paul gave Walt a cool once-over. “You didn’t mention any demo.”

  Behind him, a tall brunette with the long, tanned arms of a year-round tennis player stepped forward. “Demo? You mean a demonstration? What kind?”

  Once again, Lu was right on the money. Hot housewife ass, indeed, and Walt was pretty sure it was firm and just itching to try out a couple of kinks before she moved on to her next new thing. Crossing his arms, Walt stepped back and looked away, reminded just why he’d been avoiding CPEP for months.

  “I don’t have time to do much with the education group,” Paul said to the group clustered around him. “This is Ranger, ladies. He and a few others handle intros on toys and safety rules at the dungeon. Good stuff. For beginners.”

  Paul reached past Claire and placed a genial cuff on Walt’s shoulder. His arm itched to sling the smaller man’s hand from his body. Instead he turned a brisk nod to CPEP’s newest.

  Oh yeah, we’re all Master Lucky’s grateful subjects here.

  “So, what, exactly, are you going to be showing off—” the brunette spoke again, all lazy vowels, thick with suburban-grade innuendo “—Ranger?”

  The scene name rankled Walt in the best of times. It had been thrust on him without his consent and stuck because it was an argument he wasn’t willing to have. Too many layers of explanation, too close to real and symbolic broken bone, would be required. The people who counted—his people—would never call him Ranger.

  “Floggers. The big, big, mean leather ones,” Walt said, letting his gaze sweep past the brunette’s wide eyes and across the crowded room. “Paul, just want to go over a few things with Claire, if you’re good with that.”

  “Sure. Of course.” Paul turned to his audience. “Ranger is going to use my girl as a demo bottom. There’s nothing between them.”

  “Oh, so is he one of the Doms too?”

  It’s a damn BDSM club, not Doms-R-Us, lady.

  Walt turned, not particularly caring if Miss Tennis and Tan-lines caught his eyes rolling, and looked to Claire. “Ready?”

  Claire paused. The silence stretched on, moving toward uncomfortable, as she waited, still tethered to Paul.

  “Hm?” His eyes bounced between them and he blinked. “Oh, of course. They’re going to discuss his demo scene.” Paul smiled at the newcomers like he was sharing secret wisdom with them. He even paused to stroke thoughtfully at his scrawny salt and pepper goatee. “Go ahead, Ranger. I’ll find you two before you begin.”

  Paul’s last words dissolved in the chatter around them as he stepped aside, waiting for Claire to walk ahead of him.

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me with this shit, one of the Doms,” Walt grumbled.

  “Oh come on, don’t be so grumpy about the new people. They’re not all bad.”

  He and Claire moved through the crowd, pausing to greet a few friends as they crossed. Claire reached through the throng for his hand.

  “We’ll have to go in The Palace.”

  Great. That pink monstrosity made hi
m feel even bigger and more likely to break something than usual. Following Claire into the space decorated for gender and age play, Walt stuffed himself against the door and tried to find a surface not painted pink where he could let his eyes fall.

  “Just for the record, Claire, I think you and Lu are full of shit.”

  “We talked about doing more demos at the April munch, Walt. Don’t you remember?” Claire began unbuttoning her skirt. And did not look his way.

  “I wasn’t at the April munch. I haven’t been to munch since last November.”

  “Really? I thought you were.”

  “You and Lu were giving me hell about it just a few weeks ago. Remember?”

  “Oh?” Claire squatted beside her big shoulder bag, known to hold everything but a map to Atlantis, and began removing items, one by one.

  The worst liar of them all.

  “Should’ve let Lu tell your stories for you,” Walt said. “What are you two up to?”

  “Just trying to get you out more.” Claire sniffed as she stood and hung her clothes in one of the gold-painted school lockers. “You’re turning that park service cabin into a monk’s cell.”

  “Monk?” He chuckled softly. “You know better.”

  “Okay, you might not be ready to take your holy orders and turn permanently celibate, but still…” She crossed to him, smiling softly. “You should come down and play once in a while. We don’t bite.”

  “Don’t bite? Then you’re not doing kink right.” Grinning at Claire’s rolled eyes, he pushed off from the door and clapped his hands. “So. Floggers? Florentine demo?”

  Claire considered it and then nodded. “Yeah, with the big ones. There’s so many new people tonight. They like the showy stuff.”

  “Good deal,” Walt said and reached behind him for the doorknob.

  “Oh, and can we use that cross at the back of the main room? I’m a little stiff today.”