I haven’t been sleeping. My eyes are bloodshot, my clothes are wrinkled, and my hair is an overgrown mess.
My mother took great pride in her appearance. My grandparents had instilled it in her. They came to America with nothing but the clothes on their back, but they were very clear about some things. It didn’t matter how poor you were. You made sure your clothes were clean and ironed. Dressing decently was an act of self-respect, something that said to the world that you were more than your bank balance and your circumstances.
This isn’t good, Hunter.
I reach for my phone again to see if my barber can fit me in today. My display is open to my emails, and one message catches my eye.
It’s Open Night at Club M tomorrow.
That’s it. That’s the solution to my problems. A scene where I have to be focused and completely in control of myself is exactly what I need. An experienced submissive, maybe even a new one, someone wide-eyed and eager, someone with whom I’ll have to be careful and attentive, making sure she gets what she needs out of the encounter.
You’re lying to yourself, you do realize that, don’t you? A scene isn’t the solution to your problems. You’re hiding from reality, but you can’t escape it forever.
Maybe so. But it’s going to take more energy than I possess to tackle my messages, call Donahue, and figure out what I’m going to do about my mother’s house.
A casual scene is all I have the capacity for right now.
6
Eric
I don't know what instinct drives me to go to the club's open night on Saturday. Maybe it's because it's been a long week. Maybe it's because I can't shake off the feeling that something is wrong at Leforte Enterprises. Maybe it's that I could use a drink or two, anything to get the distraction that is Dixie Ketcham out of my head.
Whatever it is, when I get there, I see someone there that I didn't expect to see. Hunter.
I walk over to him. "You're alive," I quip. As soon as the words leave my mouth, I curse myself. Idiot. "You're the last person I thought I'd see here."
"I’ve been ignoring your messages,” he responds sheepishly. “Sorry about that.”
“There’s nothing to apologize for.” I glance at him. I’d like to say he looks better than he did the last time I saw him, but I’m not sure I’d be right. Hunter looks drained. “How are you doing?”
“Fine.” He lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “Let’s talk about something else. What have you been doing with yourself?”
“Xavier got me to work for him.”
“He did?” Hunter looks like he’s holding back a laugh. “He’s been trying for a very long time. How did he manage to convince you to finally take him up on his offer?”
“He appealed to my better nature.”
“You have one?”
I grin wryly. “Touché.” I glance over at the bar, but it’s crowded. I’m going to wait for it to thin out. “Do you know Pierre Valade?”
“Not really, no. Why?”
“Because the guy’s left the place in shocking shape. They’re behind on everything. This is years of neglect. I have no idea why Xavier kept him on as long as he did.”
“You know Xavier,” Hunter says. “As much as he likes to play the ruthless billionaire, he’s deeply loyal to his friends. If he considered Pierre Valade among them, he would have done everything in his power to avoid firing him.”
“He took advantage of Xavier,” I retort. “I don’t like people like that. And it’s more than simple negligence. Something feels off.”
Hunter gives me a sharp look. “Off? In what way?”
“I can’t put my finger on it,” I reply. “Not yet, anyway. It’s just been a week. I’ll have to sit with Leforte’s books to figure it out.”
I scan the bar and my gaze snags on a woman. She’s sitting with her back to me, her honey-brown hair tumbling down her back in loose waves. Something about her reminds me of Dixie Ketcham. Same hair color. For a second, I consider the possibility that it could be her and then dismiss it with an inward laugh. Dixie voluntarily showing up at Club M. What an impossible thought.
“Something’s just occurred to me.” A slow smile spreads over Hunter’s face. “If you’re working at Leforte, you must have run into Dixie.”
“Mmm.”
“That’s all you’re going to say? Come on, Eric. I know your type, and Dixie is—”
“Not it,” I interrupt before he can continue his sentence.
“Really?”
“I’m not looking for