CHAPTER ONE
Rae
ICAN’T POSSIBLY DOanother walk-by. At some point, I’ve got to just bite the bullet, march up to the door, and go inside.
Half a block away, I work up the courage and scrub my clammy palms down my thighs.Be Mimi inRent, I think, the way I always do when I need to kick my butt in gear.Forget regret and just move on. Okay. This is it.
I eye the building as I make my final approach. It’s pretty. Red brick. Originally a warehouse, I’d guess, like most of its neighbors, with lots of big windows, mostly dark now. The comedy club on the ground floor is open for Friday-night business, judging from the sickly green cast of its neon sign and the stink of cheap beer.
Where I’m headed—if I can make myself take that final step—is in the basement. Off the Cuff, it’s called, though there’s no visible sign. I like the name. It feels right in a way I can’t entirely describe. Sexy, but also not too serious. Like maybe if I get the giggles my first night, they won’t run me out of town and cross my name off the permanent, forever, etched-in-stone kinky person list.
I concentrate hard on taking one step after another, regretting the stilettos I finally chose. Yes, they’re cute, but limping into aBDSM club for the first time with a blister and a sprained ankle isn’t exactly the look I’m going for.
I’m maybe five yards away when I catch the eye of the bouncer standing in the alcove between the comedy club’s plate glass window and Off the Cuff’s wholly unremarkable front door. She’s wearing all black with the requisite earpiece and that bland, vigilant look I remember from the few times my friends and I ventured out to dance in college. Before I met Brendan and became—
Nope. Not thinking about the ex tonight. Tonight is for me. My night. There’s no room for thoughts of Brendan and the way he’d steel himself before going down, like a man headed into a burning building instead of a guy about to give oral sex to his girlfriend.
No room for thoughts of work and how the new mystery consultant—Grant Bowman—is dragging us all back into the office on Monday, after three years of doing fine working from home.
Just thinking about it is giving me anxiety.
Three years of never once having to remove old tuna fish sandwiches from the break room fridge or telling Dani down in graphics that roasting lamb in an Instant Pot on her desk isn’t workplace-appropriate or figuring out how to politely let Stinky Phil know that he’s got to leave his shoes on in the office or risk general mutiny.
Three years of work-from-home bliss brought to a screeching halt by Grant Bowman, the executive consultant ostensibly brought in to “help us transition back to the office,” which is one hell of a vicious cycle if you ask me.
I’ve got a real bad feeling about the man. Like that indescribable, life-changing,Something wicked this way comesbad.
It’s half the reason I’m here tonight. To let off steam and facemy fears and just bite the bullet and do thisonething I’ve dreamed of for so long.
So that’s it. No thinking about exes or the office or checking the family chat or asking Dad for the umpteenth time if he’s taken his meds. None of it.
In fact, there will be no thinking allowed at all beyond this point. Nothing but me and this Friday-night foray into my fantasy world.
A car honks a few feet away, and I look up, startled to see that I’ve reached the door. The bouncer leans against the wall, staring at me with a look that says she knows exactly why I’m here.
To be dominated by a stranger. And maybe even to do some sexy stuff while I’m at it.
Oh no. What was I thinking? I can’t do this.
Doing my best to pretend I stopped randomly, I tap my phone and walk on, opening apps like I mean it. Nothing to see here. Just a busy woman in a trench coat, tiny little dress, and killer heels, being busy, busy, busy. Not even a little interested in what’s happening beyond that sleek silver door.
A group of fratty guys charge past, smelling like booze and AXE body spray. One of them bumps my shoulder, and my phone flies from my hand to land on the cobblestones directly in front of the club. My indignant yelp is eaten up by a wave of bro laughter, and of course—ofcourse—Siri chooses that moment to scream at the top of her lungs, “I’m sorry, Rae. I didn’t quite catch that. Do you mean Pops and Stuff on Broad Street or Off the Cuff on Cary Street?”
Busted.
Resisting the urge to bolt, I pick up the phone with as much grace as the heels and too-short dress allow.
“Done scoping us out?” One side of the bouncer’s mouth kicksup to make her look only slightly less stoic. She’s got Ilona Maher’s tall, wide, intimidating stance. A woman used to being obeyed.
I shiver. “Guess so.”
“Your recon skills could use some work.”
“Yeah. I figured.” I scuff one heel to the sidewalk, feeling exactly like a little kid caught doing something naughty.
“You already registered?”
“Yes.”
