Brokered Submission (17 page)

“A baby?” Angela said, the indignation clear in her tone. “Are you kidding? After what happened? The bastard should be shot!”

“Where is he?” Zoë asked. “Where is Ma—” She stopped herself. He didn’t deserve the title. “Where is that bastard, Cameron?”

“Hank and Louis are questioning him,” Jill said. “He broke all kinds of rules with what went on in there. They don’t take that kind of stuff lightly here at The Vault. That guy’s in big trouble, and not just with you.”

“Dylan,” Zoë said suddenly, the need to see him, to be held in his arms nearly overwhelming her. She looked around for her purse. She saw it sitting atop her gown, which was neatly folded on a sideboard that ran the length of one wall. “I need to call Dylan.”

“Louis called him right away,” Jill said, patting her hand. “He cut his meeting short. He’s on his way back now.”

“He’s heading back to New York? Now?” Zoë absorbed this, relief warring with guilt. She knew how important closing this deal was for him.

As if reading her mind, Jill said, “Don’t worry about his business dealings, Zoë. Whatever he was doing, you’re more important. Louis would do the same thing in a heartbeat. It’s what love is about, honey. Being there for the person you love. There is no higher priority.”

“We’re new,” Zoë said by way of explanation to the other two women. “We haven’t really used that word yet—the L word.” She almost managed a grin.

“Trust me, honey,” Jill said emphatically. “I’ve known Dylan a long time, and the boy is smitten. The L word, as you call it, might as well be plastered on his forehead and branded on his butt. Subs may be the ones who are ‘owned’”—she drew air quotes around the word—“but you already own Dylan’s heart. I guarantee it.”

Zoë found she was smiling, Jill’s words like a salve on the emotional wound caused by Cameron’s betrayal. “Meanwhile,” Jill continued, “though this isn’t the introduction any of us would have wanted, welcome to the Sub Club.”

“Welcome,” Betty and Angela echoed.

Betty reached for something by her chair, and held up a bottle. “Care for a shot of the good stuff? This is an excellent Cognac I’ve been saving for a special occasion. Now that Dr. Michael gave his okay, it’s time for some
real
medicine.” She grinned.

“Absolutely,” Zoë said, surprised to find she could laugh. Angela went to the sideboard and returned with four glasses. Betty poured several fingers of brandy into a glass and handed it to Zoë, and then poured some for each of the others.

When they all had a glass, Jill lifted hers in a toast and the others followed suit. “To the newest member of the Sub Club. Welcome, Zoë.”

They all drank. The brandy was a fine one, and Zoë savored the first sip on her tongue. It tasted smoky and a little sweet. She sipped again, and the burn felt good as it bloomed in her chest. The small, cozy room, she finally noticed, was softly lit with indirect lighting. Flames flickered on a series of tall, fat candles on a nearby table, the smell of melting wax, lavender and chamomile scenting the air.

She leaned back carefully against the sofa, the welts marking her back and ass still tender and stinging. “Man,” she said. “I feel like I’ve been run over with a steamroller.” She took another sip of the fortifying brandy.

“You were, in a way,” Jill said, her tone serious. “Your trust was violated. That’s a real kick in the gut, no matter how you look at it. If you feel up to it, tell us what happened, honey.”

Before answering, Zoë asked, “How did you know to come find me?”

“Master Kyle and I were done with my scene, and I was wondering where you were, so I went looking. When I found the door to the small dungeon was locked, I knocked, but there was no answer. Something didn’t feel right to me, so I went and got Michael. He was in the office and we looked at the security monitor and saw what was happening. It was clear you were making the universal safeword hand signal, and equally clear he wasn’t paying attention.”

“You never saw anybody run so fast,” Angela interjected. “The two of them took off like they were shot out of a cannon.”

“Security monitor?” Zoë asked, not following.

“Yeah,” Betty added, “Michael and Hank keep security cameras in every scene room as a safety precaution. Occasionally scenes go a little haywire, though I’m not aware of anything like this ever having happened before.”

“Me neither,” Jill agreed. “You would think Master Cameron would know better, surely.” She shook her head, consternation on her face. “I just don’t get it. I had such a great scene with him on stage. How could things have gone so wrong?”

“No witnesses,” Angela suggested darkly. “At least, he didn’t realize there were any. He must have figured he could do whatever the fuck he wanted. Some so-called Masters are really just bullies in Doms’ clothing.”

“Was he just clueless,” Betty asked Zoë, “or was there actual bad intent?”

Zoë thought about it before answering, going over the bizarre, frightening events in her head. “At first I thought he just wasn’t getting it, and maybe I was to blame because I’m new to the scene, and wasn’t entirely sure what I was doing. But then I said my safeword. I said it over and over, and he didn’t give a shit. He laughed at me.” She shuddered as the horrible memories came tumbling back in all-too-vivid detail, tears springing again to her eyes.

Jill put her arm comfortingly around Zoë. “You don’t have to talk about it yet, honey, if you aren’t ready.”

Zoë shook her head resolutely and angrily blinked away the tears. “No. It’s okay. Fuck him. He’s not going to hijack my wonderful experience with BDSM. No way am I going to let the son of a bitch do that to me.”

“You go, girl!” Angela cried enthusiastically, and the other two women laughed and clapped their approval.

Zoë smiled wanly. Then she steeled herself, and told them exactly what had happened. The women’s faces darkened as she spoke, each of them hanging on every word. Instead of feeling weakened by the telling, Zoë felt empowered. It was good to be
heard
.

When she was done, Angela picked up a pretty brass bowl from the end table beside her chair and handed it to Jill, who in turn handed it to Zoë. The bowl was etched with symbols and designs, a small wooden dowel resting inside it.

She looked up at the women. “What’s this?”

“It’s a Tibetan singing bowl,” Jill explained. “Run the dowel around the rim of the bowl. It makes a pretty sound.”

Zoë picked up the dowel, not entirely sure what she was doing. She rubbed the side of the dowel along the perimeter of the bowl and a small, bell-like sound emanated from it. “Oh,” she said softly as the sound grew stronger. “Am I doing that?”

“You are,” Jill confirmed.

“The bowls are used for meditation, deep relaxation and holistic healing,” Betty explained. “We use it in the Sub Club as a kind of repository for negative shit.”

“Yeah,” Angela continued, leaning forward, “now that you’ve shared the bad scene in a safe place, you can let go of it. Just put it right in the bowl and let the music wipe it away.” She mimed dropping something into the bowl and then rubbed her hands together for emphasis. “Done. Gone.”

Zoë continued stroking the rim of the bowl with the dowel. She quite liked the concept of a “repository for negative shit.” Closing her eyes, she envisioned dropping the whole nasty, terrifying scene, and
Master
Cameron along with it, into the bowl, and then letting the contents blow away on the air of its pure, sweet sound.

Finally she dropped the dowel softly into the bowl, letting the last of the music die away. She looked up at the women, all of whom were watching her with kind, attentive smiles. She felt light, the terrible weight of what had happened somehow lifted from her psyche.

“Thank you,” she said simply to her new friends.

“You’re welcome,” they replied in unison.

Then they all laughed, Zoë along with them.

~*~

Dylan raised his hand to pound on The Vault’s main door and was startled when it opened before his fist could come into contact with the wood. Louis and Michael stood just inside. “Where is she?” Dylan demanded, stumbling inside. “And where’s that bastard son of a bitch asshole whip maker?”

He realized he was clenching his left hand into a fist at his side, his right hand clutching his briefcase. He was still dressed in his suit slacks and dress shirt, his tie loosened at his throat, his jacket slung over his arm. Fortunately, the meeting had gone smoothly, and was nearly at its conclusion when the call had come through from Louis. Normally he wouldn’t have taken a personal call during a business meeting, but he knew Louis wouldn’t be calling just to chat—not when Dylan had charged him with keeping an eye on Zoë that evening and seeing her safely home.

Excusing himself, he’d taken the call. When he’d returned to the table, something in his face must have made it clear he wasn’t blowing smoke when he informed them he had an emergency at home and had to cut things short. Donald Harrison had surprised him by offering him the use of his private jet and pilot, allowing him to make it to the club in an astonishing hour and a half.

“Calm down,” Louis said. “Zoë is in good hands. She’s with Jill and the girls.”

“I did a thorough exam,” Michael added. “She’s got a few nasty welts, and of course she’s shaken up, but she’ll be fine. The last thing she needs right now is for you to go bursting in and upsetting her all over again. Just take a second, okay? Come back to the office so Hank can give you the full story. Then you can go to Zoë, okay, buddy?”

Dylan blew out a breath of frustration, but nodded, recognizing the wisdom of their advice. “Yeah, okay.”

They made their way through the club to the back office, where Hank was waiting. Once the door was closed behind them, Dylan looked around, half expecting to see Cameron. He realized he was clenching his fists again, already imagining the satisfying crunch of bone as he smashed that smug, handsome face. “Where is he?” he demanded.

“He’s gone,” Hank said. “We sent him packing.”

“What? I wanted to see him,” Dylan said angrily. “He had no right—”

“He’s gone as much for your sake as anything,” Louis interjected. “The last thing you need right now is to beat up some guy because you’re pissed off. That won’t solve anything, and you know that, if you stop a minute and cool your jets.”

“We read him the riot act,” Michael added. “He’s not welcome here, and I’ll make sure no one else in the BDSM community has anything to do with him. He’s blacklisted from this moment forward.”

“Yeah,” Hank added. “And if he knows what’s good for him, he’ll get the fuck out of town and never come back.”

Dylan sank into one of the chairs in front of the desk, tugging at his tie and pulling it off. Michael went to the small refrigerator in the corner of the room and returned, holding out a bottle of beer in Dylan’s direction. Dylan accepted it, twisted off the cap and took a long pull. “Okay. I’m calm, I promise. Tell me what went down, and then I want to see my girl.”

Though Dylan had the basics from Louis’ phone call, Hank explained in more detail what they’d witnessed on the security monitor. “Cameron claimed it was all consensual, but it was clear from the video stream that she was in distress. And his locking the door…” Hank glowered, shaking his head. “We’re going to have that lock removed first thing in the morning. Fortunately, we got to her fast, thanks to Jill.”

“Fuck,” Dylan swore, his voice cracking. “This is all my fault. I pushed Zoë into this. I essentially ordered her to engage in a scene without me. I should have been there. I should have protected her.”

“Stop,” Louis said, putting his hand firmly on Dylan’s shoulder. “You can’t take the blame for someone else being a total asshole. None of us knew Cameron was a fraud. He’d scened with Jill, for god’s sake, in front of us all. There was no way to know what happened was going to happen.”

“What Zoë needs now from you isn’t self-recrimination and certainly not pity,” Hank added. “She needs to see your quiet strength and determination to help her deal with what happened. She needs to know you don’t blame her one iota for what happened, and that you can move forward as a couple to heal whatever damage was done.”

“Yeah. I know you guys are right.” Dylan ran his hands over his face. He looked around at his friends and managed a smile. “Thanks for talking me back from the ledge. I need to see Zoë now, okay?”

He stood, struggling to keep the desperation he felt tamped down in front of the others. He had encouraged her to scene without him, and some fucking bastard had violated her trust. God, would she forgive him for what had happened? Would he forgive himself?

Forcing himself to speak calmly, Dylan said, “Take me to her, please.”

Louis led Dylan to the recovery room. The door was closed, and Louis rapped softly and then turned the knob. As the door opened, Dylan saw Zoë nestled on the daybed beside Jill, her feet tucked under her, looking very young. Dylan wasn’t entirely sure what he’d been expecting, but he was surprised to see all the women were laughing, Zoë included. When he came closer, he could see she had been crying, and a fault line opened in a ragged, painful line across his heart.

In two strides, Dylan was the across the room, his arms outstretched. To his relief and joy, Zoë flew into his arms. She nuzzled her face against his neck as he held her tight. He was vaguely aware of the others leaving, but he couldn’t let go of Zoë long enough to pay too much attention.

As the door clicked quietly closed, he moved toward the daybed and settled back against it, Zoë still cradled in his arms. “Baby, baby, oh baby,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

Zoë pulled back, gently disengaging from his embrace. “I’m okay, Dylan. Jill and the others are amazing.”

“I should have been here.” Tears momentarily blurred Dylan’s vision. He blinked them away.

“You were closing an important deal,” Zoë replied, shaking her head. “I feel terrible that you were dragged away like this.”

“Are you kidding me? Nothing in this world is more important to me than you.” As he said it, he knew in his heart it was absolutely true.

Zoë stroked Dylan’s cheek, a soft smile on her face. “Thank you, Sir.” Love bloomed inside him like a flower unfurling in time-lapse photography. “The girls really helped me work my way through it. I understand now I should have followed my gut. I let him get me in a compromising position when I wasn’t entirely comfortable. I didn’t trust myself enough, and as a result, I ended up giving that bastard too much power.”