Chapter 3 #2
“This is yours?” Dropping down into a chair, Hope perused Ray’s portfolio on the coffee table. “You do beautiful work.”
“Thank you.” Ray beamed. Compliments never got old.
Fontaine nodded at the portfolio. “You have a similar style to George’s, although your work is, perhaps, lighter. More…”
As he searched for the right word, Ray smiled. “He said my crafting was more joyful.”
“Yes.” MacKensie was still sitting on the couch, looking over the portfolio with Hope. “That’s it, exactly. Are we the only project of his you’re planning to complete?”
“There was another contract, but I haven’t managed to find the client. What kind of a business would call itself Chains? I thought a fence company at first, but they wouldn’t want handcrafted items, right?”
All three of them broke into laughter.
Smiling slightly, Fontaine leaned his hip against the couch. “As it happens, Chains is a private club.”
What am I missing? She turned to Hope who was the easiest to read. “What kind of a private club? A stuffy men’s club or something?”
Hope flushed. “Um…”
“Close.” Fontaine’s expression held amusement. “Chains is a BDSM club here in Seattle.”
Wait, what? George had a BDSM club for a client? For something called a tantric chair and a pentagram? She’d wondered if the client was a pagan church. “Wooden furniture for a place like that? Seriously?” she asked slowly. I do not—do not—believe this.
“Probably something to match the other live edge pieces he made,” Hope said.
“Oh, you’re thinking of the glorious spanking bench?” MacKensie noticed Ray’s stare—and turned red.
A spanking bench? Surely not. George had always been… He wouldn’t… Ray crossed her arms over her chest. “Why would he take on work for a”—not going to say the BDSM word—“club?”
“The owner loves handcrafted furniture and talked him into making some pieces,” Hope answered almost absently and turned another page.
The last photo in the portfolio was of George, arm slung around Ray.
The table they’d made together gleamed softly in front of them.
“They’re friends, and George was a member, after all. ”
Noting Fontaine’s frown, Hope winced. “Sorry, guess it should’ve stayed private.”
“George and a BDSM club? No way.”
Smile growing, Hope pointed at her. “Miss Stubborn, you may have turquoise-tipped hair, but you haven’t changed at all. I’ll prove it to you, Ms. SwampDonkey AssClown.”
From the dumbfounded expressions of the other two in the room, Hope didn’t normally swear.
Bringing herself up to an offended stance, Ray shook her head. “Ms. TardyTwat Douche-Nozzle, I am shocked. Wherever did you learn such appalling language?”
“From my absolute best friend in high school who I’ve missed so, so much.” Hope’s smile wavered for a second. Then she glanced at Fontaine and MacKensie. “We used to vie with each other for the most creative vulgar invective. Truly shameful.”
“Only shameful because you could never keep up.” Ray sniffed. “Jealous much?”
“Totally.” Hope grinned. “I’ve lost all my skill now, what with being around prudish principals and associates.”
“Oddly enough, wood doesn’t mind my language.” Thank the gods for that, or she’d have to work with duct tape over her mouth. At least she didn’t swear in public. Well not usually.
And…Hope was obviously a member of a BDSM club, as were Fontaine and MacKensie. Actually, she could see Hope being attracted to the lifestyle. As teens, they’d shared a preference for dominant men.
But Faj? Really? Ray sat down in the chair across from Hope. “Exactly how can you prove an association between George and this…club?”
“You’d recognize his work, right?” Hope asked.
“Of course.” Every craftsman had their own finicky techniques.
“Oooh, I have the perfect plan. You can be my guest at the club and check out the stuff George made. You have to see the place anyway to finish the project he left.”
“But…” Ray set her jaw. It’d been four years since…the incident. And it still felt way too soon to venture back into the world of BDSM.
Only she could see from Hope’s expression she wouldn’t let this drop. Talk about stubborn. Then again, her friend had a point. How could Ray finish the project without knowing what the piece was for and how it would fit into its surroundings?
And… This way she’d see Hope again. The thought of losing touch with her was intolerable. “Yes, okay. I’ll come. Where is this place?”
“Wait. I want to come to the show-Ray-the-club night too.” MacKensie bounced on the couch. “Please?”
“Sure.” Hope laughed. “Ray might need both of us to hold her hands.”
Ray squinted at her old friend, then huffed. “Yes, please.” How many panic attacks will I have?
They had no idea what they were suggesting. Even as the three smiled at her in sympathy, Ray figured out her goals.
Get in.
Figure out what the project needed.
Reestablish her friendship with Hope—and maybe make a new friend—and…
Get the hell out. Fast.
Gods help me—a BDSM club.
Would anyone notice if she kept her eyes closed?
Getting out of his car, Drake paused to enjoy the cool night air and the view. The lights of the Seattle skyline and the iconic Space Needle never grew old.
A glance around revealed the parking lot for Chains, his BDSM club, was almost full. Very nice. The city had plenty of kinksters who appreciated a place to get together, to meet others, and for many, to learn or share their skills.
It was satisfying to know his club provided a safe community for them.
Unlike a normal business, the club’s only entry was through the parking lot door. As with many BDSM clubs, it wasn’t in a safe neighborhood. No one walked here. And this way, the very visible door guard could keep an eye on the parking lot. The members were safe whether inside and outside.
“Sir.” The burly guard opened the door for him. “It’s been a while since you were here. Good to see you back.”
“Merci, Becker. How’s your son doing?”
“He graduated top of his class. Going to the university next fall.” Becker’s chest expanded with pride.
“Congratulations to him—and to you as well. Raising an adolescent is a true test of courage.” Drake grinned. “When you tell him the things not to do, do you share all the idiocies you did back then?”
“Oh, fuck no. Hell, I grew up in California. Got a fake ID so I could drink, then I’d go surfing while blasted out of my mind. Almost drowned more than once.” Becker shook his head with a rueful smile. “I hope he’s smarter.”
“I’m sure he’ll do well.” Drake clapped him on the shoulder and stepped through the door.
In the entry, he smiled at the slender, brunette volunteer running the reception desk. “How are you today, Faylee?”
Faylee rolled her eyes. “It’s a madhouse tonight, Master Drake. Is this a full moon?”
Drake laughed. It was. “Did you have to call the police?”
“No—not yet. Three silver members tried to do a walk-in, but I explained several times Saturday nights are only for gold members, and they finally gave up.”
“Some people can be quite stubborn.” Friday nights were open to the public, although to satisfy the various zoning and business regulations, everyone had to be a so-called member.
For a silver membership, a person simply filled out an application, disclaimer, and agreement to abide by the rules, paid the dues, and were admitted.
On Fridays, the dungeon rules and equipment were tailored for newbies to the lifestyle.
Saturdays was for those serious about BDSM. The gold membership was more expensive and vetted.
Faylee wrinkled her nose. “Honestly, the memberships are explained everywhere. Including right there.” She pointed at the wall poster. “Anyway, tonight we have three members who brought guests. The paperwork was signed, and they got the usual briefing.”
“I do appreciate how efficient you are with paperwork.”
“Thank you, Sir.” She flushed pink with the compliment.
The submissive had a rough past and had come a long way over the years.
Making final reparations to Ghost, who lived in Florida, had been a big step in her healing—and opened the way for her to find love.
She’d been with her Daddy Dom for several months now.
After giving her a smile, he walked through the door into the main room of the club.
Everything appeared to be going well. He’d known before opening the place years ago that BDSM clubs had a high failure rate. Thus he’d designated the nightclub-like ground floor for dancing and socializing. Putting the dungeon in the basement was not only nicely traditional but helped with noise.
Law enforcement disapproved of the sound of screams.
Having alcohol on the premises was disagreeable, but people, especially those there merely for the atmosphere, wanted it. After a few incidents in the dungeon, he’d added rules. The bartender marked anyone who was served alcohol, and no one with a mark on their hand could go downstairs.
Seemed fair to him. If a person wasn’t safe driving while intoxicated, they sure weren’t safe with a flogger in hand. Or safe to receive a flogging for that matter.
“Let’s head downstairs. We’ll do a scene.” A man’s loud voice drew Drake’s attention. Ah, Riley, one of the newer members. Basketball player, tall and blond. The Dom was in his mid-twenties.
Drake suppressed a sigh. In college, he also felt he knew it all. It was a shame his gender took so long to gain a bit of humility.
Back then, he’d lost his cockiness quickly under Simon’s mentoring. Simon had high standards for the Dominants he taught. Since he’d also been Drake’s instructor in mixed martial arts, well… Pain swiftly cut an inflated ego into shreds.
As for now though…
Riley’s companion appeared to be a couple of years younger and was shaking her head. “I don’t want to do a scene. You said you’d show me around, nothing more.”
“C’mon, Leanne. You’re here; I’m here. It’ll be fun.” Riley rose.
Merde.