Driver (The Training House #5)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Six years ago I brought the sisters from London to San Francisco. To The Training House. And for six years I’ve bloody well lived to regret it.

Not that I regret giving them what they needed most, or handing them over to Master Damon, who’s one of the most capable Masters I’ve ever met.

I knew I was putting them into the best of hands.

But one of the sisters… Since the moment I set eyes on her at that club in London all those years ago, she’s been a part of my soul.

A part I can never have.

It’s been five years since they were branded to the House—only a year into their contracted service here as House slaves.

It was then Giselle took her vow of servile silence.

Five years since I’ve heard her sweet French accent.

I sometimes talk myself into believing it was to punish me, but then that’s a bit narcissistic, eh?

I’m sure she had her own reasons. And yeah, I believe I know some of them, but a slave’s mind—especially a woman’s—is ultimately always somewhat of a mystery.

I’m not too bloody narcissistic to admit it.

What the fuck do I know about women, really?

The only woman in my life—my mum—died when I was seven years old, and me cunt of a father sure as hell never taught me anything about the female of the species.

Those were hard days. I still blame my father. I still blame myself. Stupid, I know. I was just a kid. But I do my best not to dwell.

Working for the Training House helps—helps shove all that bullshit from my old life back into some dark corner, where I don’t have to look at it.

Yeah. Fucking cathartic, this shit is, kink.

Fucking saved my life, I’ll tell you that much.

Those people who think kink is sick? Who don’t believe there’s anything useful to it?

Yeah, they don’t fucking know. I wouldn’t still be on this planet without it.

But as much as it’s been for me, I know my place in this twisted world of ours. I’ve been very fucking clear on that.

Until this evening.

I’m in my apartments in the basement of The Training House, polishing up a few of my fine leather singletail whips, when there’s a knock at my door.

“Enter,” I say, expecting one of the slaves, or maybe Robert, the House valet. But no, it’s Master Damon himself, looking bloody splendid as usual, in his dark, slim-cut suit. Handsome man, and sophisticated as hell.

“Evening, Damon, Sir,” I greet him, getting to my feet and wiping the polish from my hands on a rag.

“Gilby, I have a favor to ask,” he says, getting right to the point, although what this could be about, I don’t know.

“Would you like to sit? Have a drink?”

“Nothing to drink, thank you.”

He sits on my green velvet settee, and I sit back down in one of the brown leather high-back chairs, leaning forward and continuing to wipe the leather polish from my big, meaty hands.

Working hands, they are, which makes sense, given my family.

Useful in my job, though, as the House driver and Handler, mechanic, and overall handyman.

“What can I do for you?” I ask, wondering why he seems tentative.

“You’ve worked for me as my driver for how many years, Gilby?”

“A bit over six, Sir, not counting when I drove for you in London.”

“And you’ve done an incredible job as my driver, and as a Handler as well. You know most of the slaves are more afraid of you than they ever were of me. Or Christopher, or Victor.”

“I don’t know about that. Just love doing my job.”

“Yes, and that’s exactly why I’ve come to see you today.”

“Is that so, Sir?”

Damon gives a small nod. “You know Victor started his own House when Christopher and I came home nine months ago, which means he’s got a lot on his plate and he’s not currently available.

And we’d like to take our Girl Aimée to the Palm Springs House for a while, spend a few weeks down there, until it gets too hot in May, and then I believe we’re heading to Paris for a while.

Which leaves me needing someone to manage the House. ”

I arch a brow at him. “Me, Sir?”

“I think it’s time. You’ve proved yourself, many times over.

At some point every good Handler can become a Master.

We won’t leave you with any new slaves—just the House Girls, and we still have the Girl and Boy—DeLayne and Dietrich—from Mistress Clara until she returns from London, but I doubt they’ll be too much trouble.

They’re exceptionally well-trained. And Robert and Cook are here if you ever feel that your hands are too full.

And…I don’t even know why I’m telling you that.

You’re completely capable and up to this task or I wouldn’t ask. ”

“Well. I don’t know what to say. It’s an honor, Sir.”

“Say yes. And please call me Damon. I’m putting you in charge, Gilby.

You’ll be overseeing my House, my slaves.

Cook takes care of my accounts, so you needn’t worry yourself with those details, but you do have access if you have a question or an unexpected expenditure.

Those decisions will be up to you—I believe you understand not to skimp on anything, whether for the slaves, the House, or yourself.

Cook will keep the good gin and whiskey stocked, but have her order good steaks or whatever you’re in the mood for.

Jasper and Curtis are here if you need some extra muscle or to run errands or drive for you—you won’t have to drive yourself unless you want to, although I imagine for the most part, you will.

But do what you need to. I trust your judgement completely.

And your pay will see a significant increase to compensate for the added responsibilities. You’ll do this for us?”

“Of course. Absolutely. I won’t let you down, Sir. Damon.”

“I already knew that.” He gets to his feet, and I do, too. “Thank you, Gilby. We can leave in comfort, knowing you’re in charge.”

“Thank you.”

“Good man.” He smiles, claps me on the back, then turns to the door.

“We leave in the morning,” he calls over his shoulder.

“As of eight a.m., you’re in charge. Christopher and I will keep in touch, of course.

Oh, and you’re welcome to use my quarters, if you like, since you’ll be head of the House, or stay in your own. It’s up to you.”

I watch him leave the room, a pit forming in my gut.

What the fuck?

A guy like me dreams about exactly this sort of situation, yet here I am feeling fucking shaky on my feet for the first time in more years than I can remember.

Nah, that’s a bloody lie. I felt the same when I came here to The Training House with the two slaves put in my charge.

I remember that sense of relief when I handed them over, when they signed their contracts that bound them to this House.

Relief, and grief I don’t want to fucking think about right now.

Am I ready for this? He thinks so—and Christopher, too, or they wouldn’t have offered. But Jesus fuck! They could’ve given me some inkling they were thinking about it before now. Then again, this is just the sort of mind-fuck they both love.

Damon’s damn serious about this, offering me the Master’s quarters, but I’ll stay in my own space.

I’m used to it down here. But fuck, my head is in it already, making plans, my brain going a hundred fucking miles an hour.

There must be schedules, and the schoolroom should be put to good use.

Cook would love to run classes in there, I think, but of course I’ll have to do it myself, too.

And the House Girls haven’t been used in the classroom for some time.

The House Girls.

I can see them in my mind’s eye: Sandrine, who, despite her absolute addiction to servitude, has some cheek in her. And my sweet, silent Giselle.

I remember the first moment I saw them. Saw her.

It was at the Torture Gardens in London.

I’d been there plenty of times, but here were these two bloody spectacular subbie girls, a fine matched set, with their long brown hair and hazel eyes.

Didn’t know they were actually sisters until later, and fuck, that only made it hotter.

I’m getting hard thinking about them, about having unadulterated access to them.

To her.

Be fucking careful, you prat.

Yeah, I will be. Have been, haven’t I, these long six years? A few more hours will be nothing—as long as I can keep my shit together where Giselle is concerned.

“You can do it, you bastard,” I mutter, moving to the bar and pouring a finger or two of gin over ice. “Just fucking see that you do.”

Still, my fingers itch to pick up the House phone and tell Robert to send them to me right fucking now.

Not going to do that. But tomorrow? Yeah, tomorrow will be another story.

I’ve been up since six, and I can’t stop glancing at my damn watch—a beauty of a piece with a wide band of black leather and a heavy silver face.

It was a parting gift from Victor, who loves his watches, and I like it too, wear it all the time.

But all morning it’s felt like a weight around my wrist. I’m thinking too damn much, that’s certain.

I’m itching to get my hands on them. On her.

But I’ll take them together, as I always have.

Keeps me from doing anything stupid, doesn’t it?

At eight on the dot, I hear the garage door open and then close, which means that Damon—punctual as always—has left the House, leaving me in charge. And in a right fucking state!

“This changes nothing,” I remind myself, pacing my room.

But that’s bullshit. It could change everything, depending on how I handle myself. And maybe depending on her, which is absurd, given the world we live in.

She’s a slave. A Girl. Not a person.

Except I fucking know different, don’t I?

I finally go upstairs to the kitchen, greeting Cook as I enter.

“Morning, Nola.”