Chapter 2
Gideon
J esus Christ and all the fucking saints.
What the fuck is my son’s pale waif of a girlfriend doing here?
In my fucking hotel room? I’m expecting company, yes, but it’s supposed to be a woman who goes by the name of Artemis, a new and experienced member of The Club.
Her bio caught my eye because although she didn’t have a profile picture, she was new and since I’ve gotten a little bored of the subs currently on offer, I messaged her to see if she was up for a playdate.
She had tonight free and so I’m waiting for her, not Odette fucking Bishop, for Christ’s sake.
Odette is standing there staring at me, her silvery gray eyes wide with shock.
She’s in a tight black minidress and cheap, black patent stripper heels, and she’s clutching a glittery silver purse like a mountain climber clutches an ice axe to keep himself from falling.
Her white-blonde hair has been caught in a smooth, high ponytail, which is always nice since it gives me something to hold onto?—
Wait. The fuck? Why the hell am I thinking that?
“M-Mr. F-F-Fairfax?” she stutters, her husky voice hoarse with surprise. “W-What are you doing here?”
I’ve got nothing against Odette. She’s small and delicate, and pretty, but she looks as if a stiff breeze would blow her away and quite frankly, I thought Lucas’s tastes ran to Amazons, not Tinkerbell.
Apparently they met at Yale, so she must have a head on her shoulders, but the first time I met her she was so shy she could barely string two words together.
Lucas is a cocky little asshole, pulling all the cheerleaders — at least he did in high school — so privately I was surprised at his choice of this colorless looking child.
But my relationship with my son is strained at the best of times, so I kept those thoughts to myself.
Anyway, I’ve barely said two words to the girl, so fuck knows what she’s doing here. I cannot fathom it.
“What do you mean ‘what am I doing here’?” I say tersely. “This is my hotel room. The real question is what are you doing in it?”
She swallows, her slender fingers moving nervously on her purse as if it’s a slippery rock she’s trying to find purchase on. “I…I…um. I’m s-supposed to meet someone.”
I lean back against the sideboard and fold my arms. “In this suite? In this hotel? My fucking hotel?”
Her eyes get even wider, even rounder. “This is your hotel?”
Christ, has Lucas not told her what I do for a living? “Yes. I own Fairfax Hotels, which built this building. Luc didn’t tell you?”
She opens and closes her mouth as if searching for words and for some reason I find myself staring.
She’s wearing red lipstick, which I haven’t seen on her before, and it sharply outlines a pair of full, pouty lips.
“I…I m-mean, maybe. I can’t….I mean, I don’t…
” She makes a feeble gesture with one hand. “So…um…no.”
Fuck’s sake. I need her out of here and now, before Artemis arrives, though speaking of, she’s ten minutes late and that means less playtime for me, which is irritating.
I need this tonight. It’s Gabrielle’s birthday and even though it’s been ten years since she died, anniversaries are still difficult for me.
These playdates with women from The Club are one way I deal with her loss, letting out the side of me that likes control, that demands it.
With a sub I can lose myself for a couple of hours, let off some steam, and simply be in the moment, at least for a little while.
Easier than a hookup, which requires explanations and all kinds of other emotional bullshit I don’t have the bandwidth for these days.
Odette is looking nervously at me and shifting on her feet, and I can’t for the life of me understand how she knew I was here and that the door would be open and?—
Wait. A creeping suspicion begins to wind through me and every single muscle in my body tenses. “Tell me why you’re here,” I order quietly, firmly, in the tone I use during a domination scene. “Now.”
Her gaze wavers at the demand in my voice, and she takes a frantic little breath. Then the words all rush out, piling on top of one another. “I-I’m here to meet a man called Master Six who I was matched with on?—”
I hold up my hand and she stops talking. My body is cold with disappointment. Fucking hell. Odette Bishop cannot be Artemis, that’s just not possible. Except she’s looking at me the way a rabbit looks at a fox and something inside me is telling me that not only is it possible, it’s the truth.
So I ask her, flat out. “Are you Artemis?”
She swallows yet again, her knuckles white as she clutches that damn purse. “Y-Yes.”
“Jesus Christ.” The words escape before I can stop them, my disappointment intensifying. If she’s Artemis, then it looks like my playdate will not be happening tonight, which is not acceptable. “You signed up through The Club?” I ask, just to make sure.
Slowly, she nods, her eyes round as silver coins.
Fuck’s sake. I dig into my pocket and get out my phone, opening up the app.
I’m going to have to cancel this date, then find someone else, which will be difficult at such short notice.
It’s either that or I go to a club downtown, but I prefer to conduct my playdates in the privacy of a hotel room.
I’m not worried that people might find out my predilections, it’s just that I’m a controlling prick and I like to be the only one in charge.
I let out a breath, ignoring the pull of disappointment and the cold grief that lies beneath it, and try to be nice. “Well, I’m sure you have questions, but I’m afraid now is not the time. So why don’t you run along, Miss Bishop. We need never speak of this again.”
I expect her to do as she’s told, except she doesn’t. She only stands there, staring at me with big eyes, her mouth full and fire-engine red. “I’m not cheating on him,” she blurts out. “Not really. I just wanted to know if I liked it. That’s it. That’s all.”
Jesus, who does she think I am? Her confessor?
“You mean Lucas, presumably?” I don’t wait for answer because I know it already. “I don’t give a fuck if you’re cheating on him. He’s a grown man, he can look after himself.”
A crease appears between her pale brows, an expression of concern on her pretty face. “You don’t care about him?”
Great, this is the last thing I either need or want, a discussion with my son’s girlfriend about my son’s love life. The really sad thing is that I suspect Lucas is tired of her and doesn’t know how to tell her.
“I do care about him,” I say before adding, because my son doesn’t know how to end a relationship, “but the fact is, he’s not in love with you, Odette.
You’re not his type.” It’s cruel of me to say this to her face, but the ugly truth is kinder than many a pretty lie.
And it is the truth. Lucas isn’t in love with her, because if he was, she wouldn’t be making BDSM dates on a sex app.
Odette’s gaze wavers and I see something that looks like hurt glitter there. It doesn’t bother me, I’m expecting her to be hurt. But then hurt vanishes and it’s replaced by something I didn’t expect. Anger. Which is interesting. Seems she has a bit of spirit after all.
“How do you know what his type is?” she says without stammering once. “When he’s barely seen you for the past five years.”
The barb is unexpected and hits me straight in the chest. Another ugly truth.
After Gabrielle died, the only thing that kept the grief at bay was work and so I dived head first into it.
My heart was ashes and I had nothing left to give Luc, especially not the kind of support a grieving teenager needed.
I told myself I was giving him space, that he didn’t need my grief on top of his own, and it’s a lie I’ve been telling myself for the past ten years.
Grief made me selfish, and now it’s too late.
There’s distance between us, a distance I put there, and he’s showing no interest in crossing it.
I don’t blame him for that, not when it’s my fault, but I’m not getting into the complexities of that, not with this pale, colorless girl.
“The relationship I have with my son is none of your fucking business,” I say coldly. “Now get out before I throw you out.”
She continues to stare at me fixedly, then puts her narrow shoulders back, drawing herself up. And there’s something in her eyes, a silvery flicker of heat, that for some reason makes my breath catch.
The feeling is so unexpected that this time I’m the one staring at her as if I’ve never seen her before in my entire life.
She’s small and delicate and yes, very pretty.
Strands of pale hair have escaped her ponytail and they’re curling around her ears.
Her dress is very close fitting, revealing small, rounded breasts, narrow waist, and the slight curve of her hips.
Her eye lashes and brows are pale, but her mouth is deliciously red.
I like my women built strong enough to take what I give out, and she’s definitely not one of those women, yet…
Color blooms in her pale cheeks and she blinks, tearing her gaze from mine, and I feel it like a punch to the gut.
A kick of raw heat. The dominant in me abruptly taking an interest. I like the way she can’t hold my gaze and how nervous she is.
Nervous little subs quivering at my approach are, in fact, my favorite.
It shows that they’re hyper aware of me, their minds twisting and turning as they try to guess what I might do.
So I make sure to never do what they expect, which intensifies their pleasure and in turn, my power. Mind games, fuck, I can’t get enough.
But not with this one. She’s not only my son’s girlfriend, she’s twenty years younger than me, and while an age gap usually doesn’t bother me when it comes to subs, it’s certainly bothering me now.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I order. “And get the fuck out.”
She doesn’t move, continuing to stand there, staring at the carpet.
So. This girl has some guts to her after all.
Then just when I think I’m going to have physically pick her up and dump her in the hall outside, she abruptly comes towards me, her gaze still averted.
She reaches for one of the tumblers of scotch I poured in preparation for my evening and before I can say anything she knocks it back, including the ice, then slams the tumbler back down and stares at me.
“I’m not going to be able to do this again,” she says almost furiously. “It took everything I had just to walk through the fucking door and I’m not leaving now. So, Mr. Fairfax. Are we going to do this or not?”