Domination (7 page)

She felt as helpless as a puppet, her arms immobile, her
head gripped hard, pinioned by Bram’s pounding cock. He thundered inside her,
drawing out a fresh gout of honeyed juice with every thrust.

“You like that?” His voice was hoarse.

“Unh, yes. Oh god…”

“Scream my name when you come, slut.”

It was almost too late. His cock filled her, hot and strong,
and she wanted to feel his slim hips pumping against her forever but her feet
began to tingle. She ground into the pubic bone bashing against her aching
clit.

“Oh god, don’t stop! Bram!” she screamed, shuddering in a
spasm of pleasure. “
Bram
!”

His cock thickened and pulsed and he came, growling like a
wildcat.

When her vision cleared, Bram was stroking her red marks
gently, pressing his palm against the burning skin like a balm. He unlatched
her, easing each numb wrist down, and turned to pull on his pants.

“How’s the food up there?” he asked.

“What?” Good Christ. She had just been banged half to death
in a wax museum and he was talking about canapés. “I’m not going back up there.”

“I have to make an appearance or there’ll be sniggering that
Bram Hunter was too high and mighty to show up to his own party.” He unlocked
her. “The high part is true. I’m drunk on sex, myself.”

“I know the feeling,” she said, still lightheaded. She
frowned at the red stripes on her breasts and thighs. They looked good—right,
somehow—and now that she had crossed that threshold she wanted more.

“Then we’ll find a quiet place and see what’s in my
suitcase,” he offered, nipping at her earlobe. “Or not. The submissive is the one
who’s truly in control.”

“I’m learning that,” she smiled.

Fuck Warren and his threats. She would never do anything to
betray Bram Hunter, not after what she had trusted him with. Even if it got
out, no one would know who the girl was.

“Let me send a text real quick and I’ll see you back at the
guesthouse.”

She hunched over her cell and began to punch in letters.

Do what you want, Warren, you rat fuck. I can’t be bought
that easily.

She hoped Bram wouldn’t give the party too much of his
evening so he could speed back to the hotel and open that suitcase.
What’s
in it? More whips, another set of cuffs? A rope?
Her wrists were a bit sore
and the lash-marks beneath her dress burned like a delicious secret.

He’s mine. Mine, mine, mine,
her heart sang. It was
the best night of her life.

Thirty minutes should suffice. She checked the time and
started a new
Adventures in Submission
post in her head, adding to it
with fantasies of what they would do when they got back to the hotel. The
windows along Bourbon Street plastered with pictures of naked women and men,
women and women, threesomes and more posing as if to prove what delights the
live sex shows offered had disgusted her at the time but now she thought about
what it would be like to be naked and on all fours onstage, rings of male
viewers pulling on their cocks as Bram fucked her mercilessly. Her pussy juiced
up at the idea.

Is that what I really want, public sex?

It wasn’t. The attraction was anonymity. It was only a
fantasy and she had always been shy and squeamish about fantasies before. But
it was all in her head. It turned her on and no harm done. Being with Bram had
given her the freedom to indulge herself sexually, in her body and her mind.
She didn’t want to be witnessed to prove she was with the great Bram Hunter but
solely for the naughty, faceless thrill of it.

And what was he getting from her in return? Trust, she
supposed. That thing that had so long eluded him. She hoped to god she would be
able to maintain that trust. She had so much to prove to him.

Forty minutes had gone by while her head whirred. She pulled
in a deep breath, stuffed her hair back into a semblance of an updo and
straightened her back.

On the pavement lights flashed, blinding her. A handful of reporters
and photographers were massed on the sidewalk in front of the low building on a
French Quarter side street, all shouting and snapping pictures. A cacophony of
voices roared in her ears as if from a distance but she could make out the
words.

“Rock Slut! What’s it like to have sex with Bram Hunter?
Will there be more posts from your blog? Rock Slut, over here! Let’s see that
famous ass!”

She spent the night locked in her room, not daring to turn
on her laptop. Melanie had sent about a hundred text messages, all of them
asking what the hell had happened and claiming she had nothing to do with it.
Poor Mel. Josie should call her back and tell her it was okay but she felt too
sick and listless to bother.

Warren Conrad—ambitious, heartless, vengeful as a snake—he
had made good on his threat, released
Adventures in Submission
to the
press and tossed what was left of Josie’s career onto a funeral pyre.

Someone knocked but she didn’t bother looking through the
peephole. No one who could be on the other side of that door would be able to
make this go away short of handing her a time machine. The thought that it
could be Bram made her miserable. A few hours ago there was no one more welcome
in her room, her life, her body, even her heart. She poured another slug of
Scotch into the water glass from the bathroom.

He trusted me and I betrayed him.
There was no coming
back from that.

Her room overlooked the street. She watched through
half-closed curtains as couples walked hand in hand, laughing, pointing up at
the ornate balconies or stopping to take pictures. They looked normal and
happy. She had forgotten what that felt like.

The room telephone blinked red. It had been ringing all
night but now she steeled herself and played back the messages.
Golden State
Gossip
,
Industry Insider
,
Celebrity Secrets
, various
sex-focused websites—they all wanted an interview or a comment. “Josie Arrington?”
most of the messages began. The others started, “Hey, Rock Slut.”

Yeah, everyone would know who the girl was. Bastards had
tracked her down the way dogged journalists do. Like she used to do.

The truth was, if this had happened to someone else she’d be
the one on the other end of the line, shocked and titillated maybe but coldly
trying to get a quote. She’d never wanted anything but to be read worldwide, to
make a name for herself as a writer. And just as she let that dream go and
another, sweeter one took its place, the universe swooped in, handing her the
tattered old desire on a silver platter and crushing the other into dust.

Be careful what you wish for.

* * * * *

She must have fallen asleep because her eyes were crusty and
she was in the same dress from the night before. Josie blinked awake, trying to
process the sound.

Knocking, shit. Bucky throwing her off the tour or Bram stopping
by to tear her head off? Or worse—no Bram at all? For all she knew she was dead
to him.

It was Jet, mischievous angel smile intact.

“There’s a good girl,” he sang as he walked in. “You can’t
hide forever.”

“I can try,” she said mulishly. Her mouth felt gummed up.

“Get fluffed and folded, ducks. A manicure will set you up
right.” He flung open the curtains and she winced like a vampire.

“I’m not going out there.”

“Are we hungover?”

“Little bit,” she admitted. Aside from the marching band
clamoring through her head and the churning in her belly, she felt just great.
Some gremlin had emptied half a bottle of minibar Scotch, apparently. She hadn’t
drunk all that. Probably.

He tossed a towel at her. “Shower. Now. I know how much you
like taking orders.”

“Not funny,” she muttered but at least someone didn’t seem
to think her predicament was the end of the world.

The shower helped clear her head. She pulled on her last
clean pair of jeans and a white peasant blouse. Dressing like a good girl
helped her feel less like an Internet come-dump. Oh wait. No it didn’t.

When she emerged Jet was busy tidying. “Lamb,” he said, “this
thing’s not going to go away.”

Josie hadn’t thought of the possibility of it going away but
now she saw that Jet was wrong. It felt as if this would be her life, her
situation, for all eternity but she knew better than most people how
mayfly-short the arc of a scandal was. She felt…not cheered exactly but less
tragic. “There’s such a thing as a news cycle.”

“Not without a resolution. Apology, retraction, what have
you. You’ve fed red meat to the ravenous public but you won’t let them swallow.”

She sat on the freshly made bed. “Have you talked to Bram?”

“Haven’t seen him. No one has.”

“Okay.” That was what she had expected to hear but it still
made her uneasy. Even if he stormed in to yell at her and call her names, at
least she would know where she stood. That would be better than the chaotic
silence of his absence.

“Put him out of your mind. Have the last word and let the
jackals move on to the next morsel.”

“Move on to what? I’ll never get hired again.” It hadn’t
occurred to her until now that even the sex blog was history. Without even
knowing it she had literally written her final word.

“Didn’t say there wouldn’t be some housekeeping to do. But
you don’t have to rebuild from the ground up. ‘Rabid grizzly bears have more
civilized table manners than Kraxis, but the ham-handed hairball of a drummer has
an enthusiasm for life unmatched in the animal kingdom.’ Heh. You can write,
ducks. Talent’s not something they can take away from you.”

“You read that?”

“It were right funny and true besides.” He sat next to her,
his light frame barely denting the covers. “You’re bloodied but not beaten,
Miss J. Chin up and carry on.”

Whatever that meant—continue touring with the band, she
supposed, face Bram, craft some sort of response that would shut down the
scandal.
Maybe Warren will even let me keep working, doing the real blog,
that is. He said it was a huge success.

“I suppose it is time I get back on that horse,” she
answered.

“Love, we leave for Atlanta tonight,” he said gently.

She took a deep breath. “It’s gonna be so hard.”

“To say goodbye? Yeah, but better this way.”

“What do you mean, ‘say goodbye’?”

“It will be easier on everyone if you’re not on that bus. Not
saying I won’t miss having my squirrel-friend on board, but…” He shrugged. “Time
you think of your own future, not ours.”

After the door closed she sat for a long time, too numb to
move. It made her sick to think of never seeing Bram again. But maybe she had
no choice.

* * * * *

Bucky did not look surprised to see Josie report to the curb
that afternoon. He was impeccable as usual in a seersucker suit, clipboard in
hand.

“Miss Arrington, finally attuned to the joys of punctuality,
I see.”

“I just came to tell you I’m leaving the tour.”

“Must I remind you that you signed a contract?”

“Call it unforeseen circumstances.”

“Accurate to the spirit but perhaps not the letter of the
law.” He pursed his lips. “Come. You’re riding with crew and equipment. And me.”
He led her to the giant black vehicle that transported the band’s support
system.

“Bucky, please. When this bus stops, I’ll still have to
face…what I’ve done. Don’t make me go through this.”

If she got inside she would be rolling toward the inevitable
confrontation. She had turned the possibilities over in her head endlessly. One
choice was to lance the wound and draw out the poison before it festered.

But then what?
she wondered.
How could things
possibly be any worse?

Which left only choice number two—escape.

He went on as if he hadn’t heard. “Circumstances can be
changed but I’m going to need your cooperation.”

She climbed in. In the cramped, dark interior, burly roadies
napped or sat absorbed in their headphones. Thankfully they didn’t look at her.

“I am going to need you to turn over your computer, your
mobile phone and any other electronic devices in that…thing.” Bucky regarded
her battered duffel bag as if it were a dead rat. “I shall also need your
passwords. I assume you’re sorted for paper and pens and the like?”

This was the last thing she expected to hear and she
couldn’t make sense of it. “Bucky, why?”

“The less you know, the better. And the less you communicate
with the outside world, the easier it will go for all of us trying to make a
living bursting the eardrums of the young, tattooed and impressionable.
Continue doing your job the old-fashioned way but deliver your dispatches
directly to me.”

“My editor didn’t call? I’m not fired?”

“Until I hear otherwise, no.”

She didn’t know what to say. Was Warren waiting for the
scandal to take her down so that his hands remained clean? She hadn’t heard a
word from him. As for Bram, she had to fix that situation herself and that
might be impossible.

Bucky seemed to read her mind. “It won’t be easy,” he said.
He sounded almost human. “And I can’t help you with him.”

She smiled mirthlessly. “Then what the hell are you good
for?”

“Damage control. Your electronics, please.”

She handed everything over but her notebook. Whatever Bucky
meant by “damage control” might free her from having to deal with the problem,
at least publicly. That meant she could continue posting about the tour as if
nothing had happened, in her own name and her own voice. Warren had plenty to
keep himself busy, rolling around in her scandal like a pig in slop. He’d get
the next update when he got it.

They began to roll. Josie took out her pencil but she couldn’t
think. She stared unseeing at her notes.

How am I supposed to finish out this tour? I can’t look
at him every day until we reach New York. I can’t watch him perform, all those
groupies wanting him. I can’t sit in my room while he’s backstage with one of
the girls Bucky sends him who knows what he wants and how to give it to him. I
can’t bear the way he looks at me, like I’m nothing.