“Coolio, bitch!” he shouted. “Want me to go with?”
In other words, she had not been wrong that Josh was a frequent attendee.
And oftentimes a douche.
Geez, how did this guy run a business?
It was on this thought that Evangeline realized she did not feel excitement coming from Barclay.
Thus she avoided looking at him.
But she had some idea how Josh ran the business.
He collected the money, offered up his loopy charm to keep the members happy and this Barclay guy did the tough stuff.
“No, I just want to check it out,” she answered Josh.
“You should let Josh go with you,” Barclay entered the conversation.
As it would be rude to continue to avoid him when he spoke directly to her, Evangeline looked to him to see him regarding Josh.
She also saw he was rather handsome, in an understated way. His hair was dark, his frame was slight and his brown eyes were kind.
The last meant, she hoped, Dom or sub (for the life of her, when she was usually really good at reading that kind of thing, she couldn’t read on him which way he swung, so maybe he was a switch, in other words, swinging both ways), he’d found someone he liked to play with in the life and in life.
“And bud, you go with her, you go clean and sober, man. Yeah?” he ordered.
“What’s the fun in that?” Josh returned moodily but instantly brightened. “Oh, right. I can score at the Pound.”
“No, Josh,” Barclay said firmly. “You’re with her, you keep your shit together.”
“She’s a Domme, dude, she can take care of herself,” Josh shot back.
At this, Evangeline fought a sigh.
In the beginning, before being a member at the Honey, when she found what she was looking for other places, learning, before the intense training she’d been given at Aryas’s place, she’d often been mistaken as a sub because first, she had a vagina, and second, she was petite.
The hunting ground at the Honey meant this didn’t happen. When she was there, she occupied one of the booths, not the hunting ground, like all the Doms. Thus there was no misinterpretation.
It was irritating to have it happen again.
“I get that,” Barclay surprised her by saying. “But doesn’t matter and you know it, Domme or not, her first time, dude, you keep tight until she gets into the swing of things.”
“It’s just booze, sex and drugs, with house music rather than rock ’n’ roll,” Josh replied.
“It’s a fucking wasteland way beyond Thunderdome, asshole, the apocalypse that happens after the apocalypse that people go in, they don’t know what they’re getting into, they won’t come out.” Barclay looked to her. “Or at least, the person who comes out won’t be the one who went in.”
“I’ve heard all about the Pound, Clay,” she said quietly, trying to communicate she was grateful for his concern, but it was unnecessary.
“You could have heard it, Evangeline, but that doesn’t mean you won’t be shocked stupid when you experience it. That shit’s fucked up, babe. And if Josh won’t go with you, much as I hate that mess, I will.”
That was sweet.
But also unnecessary.
“Like Josh said, I can take care of myself,” she assured him.
“Where do you play?” he asked.
“I don’t play,” she told him.
His brows went up. “A voyeur?”
“I’m taking a break,” she allowed herself to share.
He shook his head. “Seriously, Evangeline—”
She assumed her Mistress voice and retorted, “Seriously, Clay. I’ll be smart because I am smart. I’ll stay safe because, I’ll repeat, I’m smart. I may not have been there but I can imagine what I’ll find there and if it’s worse than that, so be it. But there’s a reason I have to go and it’s important, or trust me, I wouldn’t go. I’ll do what I need to do and then I’ll get gone.”
He studied her and assumed (correctly), “You’re lookin’ for somebody.”
Evangeline didn’t answer.
“Please tell me it isn’t a sister,” he said quietly.
Yes, Barclay was of the decent variety.
“It isn’t,” she promised.
“Take Mace,” he ordered. “And a crop or a baton, preferably a baton. And not to let it be known which way you swing but to use it if you need to. And Evangeline, babe, use it if you need to. You can beat someone bloody in that scene and they’ll likely be so hopped up, they won’t feel it but they will come while you’re doing it.”
She tried not to sneer but failed.
He caught her sneer and mumbled, “Yeah. No connections there, beautiful. It’s not about the beauty of the life. It’s the embodiment of why the vanilla world thinks we’re all fucked in the head.”
“If you’re done doggin’ my people,” Josh cut in and Barclay and Evangeline looked his way to catch him looking at Evangeline, “I’ll text you when the next one is happening. And if you want me to go with you, I’m there and I’ll do it straight and score after you leave.”
And there was the decent Josh.
“Thanks, Josh.”
“You want me too, darlin’, I’m with you. I’ll give you my number,” Barclay offered. “Just call and I’ll be there.”
She took Barclay’s number because these two were the only two who would know she’d be going. She didn’t intend to go with either one of them because she couldn’t. If she found Branch there, the NDA precluded her from approaching him if anyone she or he knew was around.
But she’d never tell Aryas, Leigh or anyone else in that circle she was going to a Pound. They’d lock her in a playroom at the Honey and torture the idea out of her head (perhaps in ways she might eventually find lovely, but she still couldn’t have it).
So these two—especially, she sensed, Barclay—knowing she was going and on the other end of a phone should things get hairy were better than no one.
So she’d take them.
* * *
It took nearly a week for Josh to text her the details that a Pound was happening that very night.
She had a client that she’d set up five showings for the next day, these starting at nine. This meant getting her game face on and her morning business done after however long it would take her to sort whatever she found (or simply to find it), and probably getting very little to zero sleep was going to hurt.
But in the end, she told herself, it would be worth it.
She knew if she explained what she was doing to anyone, hunting Branch, it would seem crazy to some, creepy to others.
It was only to her, however, that it had to make sense.
But she knew.
Kevin nearly twisted the life she was meant to lead away from her.
She was not hunting Branch with the ludicrous desire she’d move him into the amazing bungalow she’d managed to score in a downturn in the market in the awesome Willo District of Phoenix. After which she’d coax him to take out the trash and honor the appointments he set up to rotate her tires while wearing his rings and planning their future together over Monday Night Football.
What she expected to do was use him to heal her last wounds.
And do it healing his.
All this so they could both move on, perhaps not whole, because she’d only had a chunk taken out of her, but she knew in that one meeting with him that he’d had great masses torn away from him.
But they would still move on.
If that was together, and he turned out to be the guy who deserved it, she’d be open to it.
If not, they’d still both come away, if not whole, then resurrected.
It was a miracle she even wanted that for herself.
What was more, and what she needed to accomplish to heal herself, it would be an even bigger miracle if she could pull it off for Branch.
* * *
Therefore, after negotiating the massive gravel lot in her platform pumps, and handing over two hundred doll
ars in cash (criminal), she entered the flashing lights and hammering music of the Pound.
She did this without even a single one of the seven enormous security guys who loitered outside the side door to the premises giving her anything but leers at her ass, breasts and hair.
Not one of them even held a metal detector wand.
Which meant there could be anything in there.
Drugs, she knew.
Booze, she was told was sold at a makeshift bar.
But also guns (it was Arizona).
Anything.
She just hoped like heck Branch was also in there.
So she could get him the fuck out.
five
Ma’am
EVANGELINE
It would seem Evangeline had a vivid imagination, because nothing in the Pound shocked her stupid.
Although it was loud and dark (when the makeshift lights weren’t flashing), filthy and crowded, it was all actually humdrum.
It was simply the sheer numbers of people engaged in all of it that was kind of shocking (not to mention, she couldn’t imagine how any of them had come up with two hundred dollars cash just to get in).
But nothing she saw was enough to shock her stupid.
Of course, she’d never seen a drug sale go down in her life so she was a little taken aback when she saw her first, then her second, and her third (all this before she carefully traversed the length of just one side of the warehouse).
But other than that, she’d seen all the positions, the multiple partners, live fellatio and cunnilingus, toy play, blood play, burn play, cat/whip/crop/switch play, homosexual, heterosexual, pansexual activities at the Honey.
And it was far more beautiful to watch there than here, with sweating, grunting, glassy-eyed subs and Doms clumsily careening to lazily navigated orgasms that meant absolutely nothing.
No.
It wasn’t shocking.
It was sad.
And although she did carry a small can of Mace in the sleek black handbag with its short strap that kept it tucked right under her arm, as well as a baton in her hand, as Barclay had advised, she had nothing to worry about.
At five foot eight (but only because she was wearing her six-inch aubergine platforms), she towered above these BDSM heathens not due to her increased height.
Like she was a goddess in tight leather pants and a black Chantilly lace blouse with the boned, silk strapless bustier underneath it.
No one approached.
If any of them were aware enough of their surroundings to catch sight of her, they stared at her like it was Aryas Weathers himself who was there to inspect the minions, tutting at how his flock had been lost, offering salvation with a look.
This made the whole thing even sadder.
And it made her stomach roil in fear that she might actually find Branch here. Tall and fit and beautiful in his broken way, his cavorting with these lost souls would be a travesty.
As much as it would be frustrating she’d driven all the way out there, handed over two hundred dollars of hard-earned cash and been subjected to this wretchedness, she felt, after pass two around and through the warehouse with no sight of him, her heart getting lighter.
She didn’t condone it (far from it) but he could probably find a prostitute to give him what he was looking for.
As for her, if the night was a bust, she had one final resource to tap.
She’d been avoiding it but the only one who knew about Branch was also the only one who’d probably know how to get in touch with Branch.
So she was going to have to do some fancy footwork to get Aryas to lead her to Branch.
And she had a feeling this would need to be serious fancy footwork because if Branch didn’t want anyone to find him, Evangeline had a feeling even Aryas would think twice (or five times) about going against his wishes.
She was making her third pass, going down the outside wall of the warehouse, trying to decide if she wanted to take another pass through the bodies, clearly-dump-acquired furniture and frighteningly stained mattresses to give it another shot when she saw the clumsy whip work of a pleather-wearing Domme.
One really should not wield a whip after taking Ecstasy or shooting heroin or whatever made someone wobble like that (and by “wobble” she meant the woman’s head; the rest of her body was weaving—she was barely keeping her feet).
However, she did manage to crack the whip, doing so falling out of the top of her bustier, both breasts, exposing it all, and not looking at her target, but stupidly staring down at her breasts like she forgot they were there.
Lord.
This wasn’t a wasteland beyond Thunderdome.
If the ghosts of Sid and Nancy stumbled sluggishly out of the ten-person orgy happening on two stained twin-bed mattresses beside her, swearing (Sid) and screeching (Nancy), she wouldn’t be surprised.
Evangeline tore her eyes off the woefully-lacking-in-skill Mistress to glance at her poor sub when she stopped dead in midstride.
She’d seen it once and she’d know that back anywhere.
Branch.
Branch with his T-shirt not even taken off, just pulled up and off his arms, the material hanging around his neck. His cargo pants were also up, hanging loose at his hips as that was the way he wore them even if he was also wearing a belt. His hands were not bound but they were up, fingers curled around a hook that looked like, without much effort at all, he could tear it right out of the wall.
Heck, it looked like she could tear it out of the wall (if she could reach that high, which even in her pumps, she couldn’t).
But his back.
The wobbly Domme had been too close to him and too high (the last of the drug-addled variety).
She’d opened skin.
Twice.
Evangeline saw red fog her vision as the music and noises all around her muted.
Then she saw the Mistress, who’d stuffed herself back in her bustier, starting back for another go.
Without thinking how crazy, and possibly dangerous, it was, Evangeline darted forward, arm raised.
By nothing other than a miracle, the length of the whip moved through the webbing of her thumb and forefinger, giving her a bite, but nothing more.
Instantaneously, she curled her fingers around the tip before she could lose her chance and she gave it a rough yank, pulling the handle clean from the befuddled Mistress’s grip.
She wobbled and weaved, looked around idiotically, then glanced up and focused with effort on Evangeline.
Baton now tucked under her arm with her purse, Evangeline was coiling the whip in her hands.
Surprisingly, the other Domme stayed focused.
“Hey, what the fuck?” she demanded, only slightly slurred.
Evangeline looked to Branch.
He hadn’t moved, turned to look over his shoulder, nothing.
“I said,” it came from closer and Evangeline cut her attention back to the Domme, “what the fuck?”
“You touch what’s mine?” she asked.
“Ain’t me who’s got their hands on my whip,” the Domme fired back, still advancing and not understanding the point Evangeline was making.
Evangeline retreated, warning, “Don’t get closer.”
“Give me back my fuckin’ whip.”
“I said, do not get closer.”
“And I said,” the woman started rushing toward her, “give me back my fuckin’—”
But Evangeline had uncoiled the whip and started rounding it in a circle at her side to get a feel for its weight.
However, as the woman kept coming, she stopped it just beside her head and lashed out, cracking it at the woman’s high-heeled, thigh-high pleather boots.
The woman jumped back.
Evangeline struck out twice more, now advancing, the other Mistress retreating, the tip of the whip striking within inches of the woman’s toes.
It was then she executed an overhead crack, landing the tip near the woman’s midsection, which mad
e her stumble back, nearly losing balance, her face getting pale with fear in the darkness.
“I told you,” Evangeline snapped, deciding to mentally thank Sixx for her excellent whip-cracking tutelage later, “do not get closer.”
She dropped her whip arm, if not the whip, and looked to Branch, not surprised to see him turned, his shirt still bunched around his neck, but his arms were crossed on his chest and he was watching the Domme who’d been working him with a bored expression on his face.
Not looking at her.
Not indicating in the slightest he was stunned she was there.
Or glad.
Or anything.
In fact, it was like she wasn’t even there.
A month she’d searched for him only to find him in this cesspit, his back opened by a whip that had Lord knew how many germs infesting it, and he looked bored.
And he’d called her unknown ministrations “lame-ass”?
Right, she wasn’t going to open up his back (that had already been done, and not by someone who knew what they were doing … or had earned that privilege).
She was going to tan his ass.
She stormed up to him, and as she did, in a way that was reflexive only due to the fact that a human being was aggressively approaching him, his attention shifted to her.
But it was only a cut of his eyes. He otherwise didn’t move.
Yeesh, he was something.
She kept moving anyway, right at him. She got close, whereupon she transferred the whip to her left hand and reached out with her right, firmly cupping his package.
His lower half jerked back, his crossed arms slightly loosened against his chest, and she saw in his eyes that she now had his full attention.
“Not even hard,” she hissed, tightening her hold on him to see in the flashing lights only his lips thinning in response. “She opened you up,” she jerked him by his crotch, “and you’re not even hard.”
He hadn’t been but she felt him stirring in her hand as his eyes bored into hers.
She released him and ordered, “Put your shirt on, we’re going.”
“Listen, lady, no trouble. He’s yours, he didn’t say. No trouble. I just want my whip back.”
Because she was angry, she turned, stepped well free of Branch and did another overhead crack, followed by a quick flick, totally showing off and not caring, especially when the woman cowered in front of her.