Masters at Arms (Rescue Me Saga, #0.5)(54)

She placed Ian and Adam’s framed photos safely inside her carry-on bag, wrapped in one of the long gothic dresses she’d wear for auditions and, she hoped, performances. No way would she risk losing their photos if something happened to her luggage. Three years of living in the loft and everything that meant something to her, except for Cassie’s paintings, fit neatly into two suitcases and a carry-on.

She made out a check to the landlady for two-months’ rent to hold the apartment, just in case things didn’t work out in Denver. Then she called a cab and closed the door on her independent life in New York City.

Karla hoped she’d be able to find Adam once she got to Denver. She only knew his e-mail address and his Post Office box number. She’d reply to his last e-mail once she got settled in Denver.

*

Damián listened as the metal band’s lead singer spewed his gritty lyrics. He wasn’t sure the band was quite what the club needed. Not that any of the others he’d heard audition this afternoon were any better.

His mind wandered back to his talk with Adam last week. Adam had pulled his bacon out of the fire in San Diego back in 2005, when Damián had been just a day or so away from putting an end to his sorry life.

Plain and simple—Adam saved his life.

Damián cleared his throat, then noticed that the offensive music had stopped. He looked up at the stage and saw the lead singer waiting for a response from him. When had they finished playing?

“Thank you. We’ll be in touch soon.” The rote response rolled off his tongue after an afternoon of horrendous auditions. As the band packed up its equipment, he looked down at his appointment sheet. He had a few minutes before the next audition.

Since coming to Denver, he’d managed to put memories of Savannah, and all the pain she’d caused, behind him. When he was awake, at least. She still intruded on his dreams, but at least she was a better night visitor than the images from Fallujah.

Damián still couldn’t believe he was a Dom now. He even found himself enjoying some of the scenes with the submissives he was training. But he had to rein in the beast in those scenes, for fear of hurting someone—well, someone who didn’t want to be hurt, anyway. There were some nights he just had to decline a scene because he knew the rage was too close to the surface.

Of course, being the resident sadist, all the masochists found their way to him at some point. Even with them, he only indulged if he knew he could keep himself from going too far. Nothing compared to the euphoric high he got when he was in hyper-vigilant Dom space, tuned into the sub’s every breath, every gasp, every scream.

But, since he’d started working with the submissives in training, he’d learned he still knew how to please a woman without inflicting severe pain. While it didn’t do anything for him sexually, he’d long ago learned that sometimes it wasn’t about him.

Working at the club also gave him plenty of time to pursue the other things he loved, too. He’d been hired at a local Harley shop several years ago and finally had managed to fully restore his own classic. He never felt freer than when he was on his hog. When the physical therapists had told him he’d be able to ride again, they’d given him the motivation he needed to get his ass in gear and do what they told him to do.

He heard the door open behind him and turned to watch as a tall, slender young woman approached. He hoped she could hold his attention better than the last performers had.

“Come in, Miss…” he looked back down at his sheet, “Paxton. I’ll give you a few minutes to get ready. If you have a background disc, just put it in the sound system over there.”

Damián watched her prepare. Her long, wavy hair hung loose to her waist and she wore a medieval-looking dress with pointed sleeves. Her low-cut front exposed the inner sides of her breasts. No bra. Interesting look, although he’d like to see even more skin if she performed in the club.

Hell, at this point, he just hoped she could sing. So far, they hadn’t found anyone he’d want to hire. He looked back at her e-mailed resume. Her background indicated she was way overqualified. What was a Manhattan club singer doing in a small weekend private club like this one? Maybe she was like him, just needing a new start. Or maybe she’d lied on her resume.

When he glanced up at her again, he watched her bite her lower lip. Her eyes widened as she surveyed the room—homing in on the unconventional furniture, complete with chains and manacles. Hadn’t she understood what the ad in the alternative paper meant by a private club? If she thought the room looked wild now, she’d never make it through a night of debauchery this weekend.

Then she noticed him watching her. He continued to stare until she became uncomfortable and looked down at the floor. Shy? Or submissive?

It would be interesting finding out. Interesting indeed.

*

Karla nibbled at the inside of her lower lip. What kind of club was this? She’d been so rushed to request an audition when she saw the online ad while waiting for her flight at LaGuardia. She really hadn’t paid much attention to the reply other than to get the address and time right. With her flight delayed, she’d changed into her costume in-flight, which had been an interesting feat. She’d barely arrived in time for the audition.

Karla looked around the room. She’d never seen anything like this place. A private club. For what? Or did she want to know? There was a full bar and stage area, right in the middle of someone’s house. And the furniture! A few tables and chairs were scattered about, but what caught her attention were a number of ottomans positioned around the stage—each with manacles and chains attached to them. Talk about a captive audience.