Bound by Lies (8 page)

The crowd has thinned. Their bar is known for its free-flowing alcohol rather than its dinner fare. The offerings that Art whips up in the kitchen are more to absorb the booze than sate a real appetite, so as the after-work happy hour crowd disperses and the after-dinner drinkers have yet to arrive, they are blessed with a small lull.

“Hey,” Jenner says, grabbing Brayden’s arm to get his attention. The contact is like a surge of electricity that sizzles up Jenner’s arm and simultaneously makes his dick stiffen.

Brayden turns to him, his customers temporarily forgotten, and looks up at his boss. For a split second, that heartache is there, close to the surface. Jenner tries to latch on to it, to draw it out even as his tortured libido tells him that all Brayden needs is a good, hard fuck or maybe a slow, intense blowjob. He can almost imagine how it would be, what it would feel like to be sheathed in him, or to taste his cock. In that fleeting moment, what he wants most in the world is to take one step forward, to trap Brayden against the wood of the bar, wrap a fist in his silken, gold-streaked hair and grind in one smooth drag against the perfect, rounded swell of his ass, tightly encased in jeans, and show him
exactly
what he does to Jenner just by existing. It would be easy. A tiny slip in self-control and it might happen despite what rational logic dictates.

“Yeah?”

The question snaps him out of it just in time.

Breaking eye contact, choosing to glance out at the emptying bar instead, Jenner says, “If you want to take a break and get some dinner, it’d be a good time for it.”

Brayden shrugs, watching his boss carefully. “Eh, I think I’m good for a little longer. You can go first. Looks like you might need the break more than me.”

That brings Jenner right back to focusing on Brayden and trying to determine what that comment could mean. But when he looks back, the mask is in place and he can see nothing in Brayden’s expression other than what he wants to be seen.

“Okay then. Yell if you need anything.”

“Will do.” Close enough to touch, Brayden simply turns from him and once more leans over the bar, like he knows that Jenner is studying him but doesn’t care. Eyeing the women, dressed in casual business attire—a-line skirts, high heels, ample cleavage and wearing plenty of makeup—Brayden says to them, “So, where were we?”

They giggle. One of them says, “Well, I
think
I was about to give you my phone number…”

Brayden leans in closer, saying under his breath to her, “And what would I do with something like that?”

“You’d call it,” she whispers.

“And what would we talk about?”

“Oh, I have some ideas…”

Scoffing at the scene under his breath, Jenner pushes past his employee, his hip brushing against Brayden’s ass, and storms off to the break room.

He prays that it’s empty and it is. Once inside, he slams the door shut and thumps his forehead against it. Baring his teeth, wanting to scream and growl and rage, he does so silently. Drawing his fist back, he wants to release the punch and whale on the door, to vent his pent-up frustrations on something inanimate simply because he has no other option. It takes all of his will but he pulls the punch at the last minute, touching his knuckles to the wood’s grain rather than hitting it so hard he breaks skin or bone.

He takes a deep breath, then another.

“Why did I do this? Why did I do this to myself?” Unsurprisingly, he gets no answer. “I should fire him. I have to fire him.”

But Jenner knows he could never fire Brayden. That would be giving up and letting go and he intends to do neither, even if it kills him or drives him insane.

There’s a soft knock from the other side of the door.

“What do you want?!” he bellows.

“Can I come in?”

Groaning loudly, Jenner takes a moment to compose himself, then stands aside to open the door.

He gestures at the small table, the picture of composure. “Have a seat.”

“Chicken sandwiches. That okay with you?” Max says, holding two plates.

“Whatever.”

With a sidelong glance at her roommate and employer, Max gently sets out their food and interprets the subtle cues he gives off.

“That bad, huh? We’ll be a lot busier later. Less chance for vicious blue balls.”

Jenner stalks to the door and closes it tightly. After thinking about it, he turns the lock before joining her at the table.

“You’re the dumbass that hired him.”

“Thanks for reminding me.”

When he continues to hover, distracted and tense, she says, “Sit. Sit down. Go on. Talk to me about it. You’ll feel better.”

“Talk to you? You want me to talk to you about what’s
bothering me
? Well okay. Let’s talk.” He pulls out a chair and straddles it, directly across from her. “Hmm, where should we begin? Oh. I know. While he’s out there every night giving those women all of his attention, I’m the pathetic shit that can’t stop wondering what kind of sex noises he makes, if he grunts or moans and whether his voice gets a little softer and quivers when he’s coming. I can almost imagine it, and it makes me want to fuck that pretty smile right off his mouth. I want to know that, and hear it for myself. I
need
to know it—and the particular sound he makes when I stuff his hole full of my cock. I want to know that too. I want to wrap that fucking braid of his around my hand and pull on it while I ride him. And sweet Jesus, how
small
he is? How he has to crane his neck to look up at me and how easy it would be to overpower him, to just pick him up and move him, bend his ass over the bar or a table. His little body is just sick and tight and hard. Not too many muscles. He’s not bulky; he’s just sexy as
fuck
. What else? Oh. I stare at his nipples. A lot. While we’re working. While people could
see
. They’re hard quite often—his nipples—like his body hasn’t adjusted to the colder weather. It makes me want to strip him butt naked and drag ice cubes all over his skin to see it pebble. Then I’d warm him back up with my tongue, but I would draw it out for
hours
.”

“You’ve put a lot of thought into this,” Max observes. “Do you usually think about the ways you want to fuck guys with this level of detail?”

Jenner licks his lower lip wet. “No. No, I’m pretty sure it’s just him.”

“Hmm. That’s kinda unhealthy.”

“Mm. Probably.”

“You’re his stalker, Parrish. You’ve become that guy.”

He groans and covers his face with his hands, his elbows braced on the table.

She picks up her sandwich and considers Jenner’s problem. “I know how to fix this,” she says. “We need to get you laid. How long’s it been anyway?”

“Too long,” he grumbles.

“Well, there we go. Problem solved.”

On Thursday night, a table full of his old football buddies is gathered in the back corner. For most of them it’s a guy’s night away from their wives and girlfriends, reliving the glory days while the Eagles and the Steelers play on the flatscreen. Jenner waits on them simply to spare Max the trouble, since he knows the kinds of comments those guys are likely to make about her. He catches a few of them looking at her and waits for the crude remarks that always materialize.

First, though, their conversation revolves around Brayden after they catch a glimpse of his nametag and they put the pieces together. It’s a lot of discussion about how funny it is that just a few years ago, Brayden was shying away from them at school and now it’s his job to serve them their beers, hiding away behind the bar like he’s still scared of them or likely to cry if he gets too close. Whenever Jenner approaches the table, their voices become more hushed, the conversation interrupted with things like, “Hey man! Good game tonight! What’s on tap again? Where’s that little piece of ass of yours? She hasn’t come over to say hi once!”

Jenner can’t call them on the whispering about Brayden without making it weird for everyone, so he just monitors it all as best as he can from afar. He laughs off the comments made to him directly, answering questions about Max with sarcasm, things like, “George, you’re just too much man for her to handle.”

Which provokes one of the other guys to laugh and say, “You got that right! Look at that gut! She’d get lost in the rolls!”

Feeling like a referee in a game that has more rules every minute, the stakes devastatingly high, Jenner’s gaze keeps drifting to the bar, and Brayden. Minute by minute he becomes more certain that what he needs is to get away and escape to another, safer world, one he knows well and which can at the very least relieve some of the tension keeping him on edge.

The rules of the masquerade, as stated on the website, are simple. Attendees must be male and dress in accordance with the role they are playing and the type of companionship they are seeking. For this one night, there are no shades of grey, no switching, and no questions. You either attend wearing pants and carrying some type of leash—chain, rope, leather—or you attend wearing a skirt or kilt and wearing a collar. If you’re wearing pants, that marks you as a top and as a Master. Conversely if you are wearing a skirt, that distinguishes you as a bottom and a slave. If you see someone you like, and they’re willing to participate, you claim them by hooking your leash to their collar. Once someone is claimed, they’re off-limits.

It’s to be held at Manse, a renovated mansion that now serves as a locally famous gay bar. Owned by the wealthy, eccentric and exceedingly bored David Davenport, Manse functions on most nights as a hang out for all of the area’s gay community. On Saturdays, it’s a different story. The local harcore BDSM devotees and enthusiasts are invited to meet and play in the dungeons. Saturdays are always a much smaller crowd, as Jenner can personally attest. David is always trying to lure in new blood by hosting events like the masquerade, which help newcomers transition into the lifestyle. Admittence to the events are by invitation only, but all you really need to acquire entry is to send an email through the website, introducing yourself and explaining what you’re looking for. David and his staff run background checks, Jenner knows, as a safety precaution. If you try to give a fake name, you won’t get in. The bouncers stationed at Manse’s front door screening photo IDs against that evening’s approved guest list make doubly sure of that.

Manse is a few towns away, but close enough for Jenner’s purposes. He has made the drive regularly for years, studying the art of Domination under David on Saturdays or going on other nights to cruise for a hookup. It was easier when he was barely eighteen, so passionate about learning everything he could from David that he attended classes and private sessions alike with David and his submissive, Shea. But, once the full responsibilities of running the Pub settled firmly on Jenner’s shoulders, that became difficult, if not impossible. Getting away to Manse on a Saturday was soon a laughable notion. Of course, by then Jenner knew who the subs were and could find them any day of the week, at Manse or with a single phonecall, whenever he was in the mood.

Now, weeks or sometimes months pass without a single visit to his old haunt, and David. He misses it even if he never could find the right submissive to partner with. Simply being known, being unquestionably welcomed and accepted, is the greatest luxury he has ever experienced.

After Jenner and all of his employees survive Thursday without incident, Friday, the night of the masquerade, finally arrives.

Jenner puts Art in charge of Parrish Pub after he leaves for the night at ten, closing the kitchen and reassigning the remaining staff to handle the bar. He uses the empty apartment above the bar to get dressed, a space Jenner has been trying and failing to lease out for months and has since taken to using as a crash pad. It’s home to a small bed, some personal items of his own, and not much else. Clad in impeccably tailored black pants, heavy, steel-toed boots and carrying a leather leash, gloves and a hood to wear once he gets to Manse, he drives to the place.

Things are in full swing once he gets there. The parking lot is full, with vehicles spilling out and parked along the roads around the estate. As a long-time patron of Manse and personal friend of David’s, Jenner knows some secrets and drives around to the back, easily finding a closer spot. To calm his frayed nerves, and begin to soothe away the accumulated stress of weeks, he lights a cigarette and lingers in the shadows cast by the full moon’s light through towering maple trees and evergreens. Starlight glints from the stonework of the mansion, reflecting off of the leaded glass windows. Even from outside, he can feel the pounding music from the speakers all the way down to his bones. Closing his eyes, inhaling the smoke and opening his senses, finally, Jenner begins to relax.

At the sound of a door snapping closed, then footsteps, Jenner glances up to find David approaching him. With his perpetual smile fixed firmly on his face, David exudes all of the immense power he’s ever had. Bombarded by the sheer force of the man’s will and charisma, Jenner can’t help but smile back. He has always loved David, who has guided and shaped the way Jenner practices the art of domination. Though David is of a more average height and therefore shorter than Jenner by inches, as well as less sizeable in sheer muscle mass, that has never seemed to make a difference. David’s strength does not originate from his physicality. Brute force simply isn’t his style. One look, one word, one gesture is all it takes for him to send men falling to their knees, eager to submit and serve.