Masters at Arms (Rescue Me Saga, #0.5)(55)
A center pole in the middle of the house’s great room sported several thick eye bolts—and more chains and cuffs of varying heights spaced at regular intervals. Along the wall were any number of implements of torture whose purposes she didn’t even want to think about.
She cast nervous glances at the Hispanic man in the Harley-Davidson vest sitting at a table between the center post and the bar. While he studied her paperwork, she noticed that his shoulder-length hair was pulled into a ponytail. His moustache and goatee gave him the look of a—well, if she needed to put a word to it—“sadist.” Or what she’d imagine a sadist would look like.
Then he looked up at her and his black eyes bore through her, causing her stomach to drop with a ka-thunk. Unsettling. No longer able to maintain eye contact, she looked down at the floor. Maybe she should run while she still had the chance.
No. She needed this job. She looked up again, but her eyes gravitated to the center post first. Her stomach quivered, sending a jolt to her clit.
Oh, my!
“Miss Paxton?” Her attention returned to the intimidating man. When he stood, she realized how tall he was. Almost as tall as she remembered Adam being, although even Adam probably wasn’t as tall as she remembered. She was only about five-six when they’d met. Everyone looked tall to her then.
“Are you ready?” His voice was stern. No smile. Would this man be her boss? Would she be able to work with someone who put her nerves on edge like he did?
Well, it’s not like you have a lot of options. The market for Goth singers was pretty small, especially in an isolated city like Denver.
“Y-yes.” She drew her shoulders back. Why did she feel she should bow down before him? Lord, he intimidated her.
“I’m Damián Orlando, one of the owners of the club. Just call me Master Damián.”
Her hand shook as she adjusted the microphone to her height. Master Damián? What had she gotten herself into this time?
“Nice to meet you, sir.”
He smiled as if satisfied with her response. Why did the thought of pleasing him seem so important to her? “Begin whenever you’re ready.”
She walked over to the sound equipment and queued up her music. When she returned to the mic, his intense gaze sent butterflies into frenzied flight inside her stomach. Shoot! She missed her queue.
“I’m sorry. May I start over?”
“Certainly.”
Come on, Karla. You need this job. Don’t blow it.
She went back to the CD player to start Track One again. Deep breath. She ran her clammy hands against the brocade dress covering her thighs, then returned to the microphone center stage. Unable to sing while he stared at her with that all-consuming gaze, she closed her eyes and felt the music flow through her.
For you, Ian. She almost felt as if Ian was watching over her. Not the sadist club owner in front of her, but her brother.
Then she sang Tarja’s I Walk Alone, as if she really could bring Ian back.
*
Adam closed the checkbook and crossed to his filing cabinet to lock it away. Aerosmith’s I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing blared from the speakers. He’d been trying to drown out the noise from the auditions, but that song put him even more on edge. Damn. One of Joni’s favorites. She’d play it almost every night he was home on leave.
They said time would heal the pain of her loss. Nine years had only managed to dull it. Rather than the sharp knife point he used to feel jabbing into his heart, the pain now felt more like his heart being squeezed in a vise.
God, I still miss you, Joni.
A particularly discordant note from the latest audition brought him back to the present. He hoped he hadn’t made a big mistake with this whole live music thing. He’d barely been able to hear himself think while trying to concentrate on his bookwork. How the hell would he be able to focus on his sub during Dom/sub demonstrations with that racket in the background?
Of course, there were the private rooms, but he liked to do demonstrations in the great room for some of the newer Doms. He usually worked with Grant as his sub. She’d shown up at the club six months ago, after hearing about it from Damián. She usually topped submissive women and men—but she liked to switch things up with her former master sergeant. Unfortunately, she wasn’t submissive so much as subordinate. Not the same as what he’d shared with Joni, but he didn’t expect to find that kind of woman again.
Now that his accounting was done and the bills paid for another week, he opened the door to his office and went back to the desk to check his e-mail account. If anyone had told him while he was in the Corps he’d become a keyboard jockey in retirement, at his laptop several times a day to keep his business records up to date or to cruise the Internet, he’d have shot them for a fool.
During a lull between his classic-rock station’s tunes, new music wafted through the door from one of the acts auditioning in the bar. Nice. A woman’s voice. He actually understood the words. For some odd reason, thoughts of Karla Paxton came to mind. He still pictured her as a pink-haired Goth, although she’d sworn to him in her letters that had just been a rebellious teenage phase.
Karla had written to him as promised since he’d said goodbye to her at the airport that Thanksgiving weekend. She’d often send something she’d made, including the most incredible chocolate-peanut butter brownies he’d ever eaten. He felt guilty, as though that thought was disloyal to Joni. She’d never been too interested in cooking or baking.