Domination (5 page)

Josie hesitated over what to wear. The luxurious robe over
nothing seemed like the sexiest bet but the swampy New Orleans air argued
against it. The guesthouse was lush, semitropical and lavishly, if quirkily,
decorated. But even the few steps from the bus to the entrance felt like wading
through a damp, hellishly hot cave, like an alligator’s stomach. And anyway,
what if Bram just wanted to talk to her again, explain more rules about being
submissive? His submissive. Her nipples hardened just thinking of it.

Better be safe. She put on a shapeless skirt and brushed out
her hair. The “Copy Editors’ Conference, Atlantic City” T-shirt was lame but it
was the tightest one she had.

She was just shutting her door when her room phone rang.

“The courtyard,” Bram said. “Show the guard your ID.”

Guard? She raced down the stairs, flashed her license to the
man at the gate and heard it clang behind her.

Bram was inthe pool,
stark naked.

Well, that’s something,
she thought, watching his
lean form fold in two and cut through the water. He shot up again, shaking out
his hair.

“I’m overdressed.”

“Not for long.”

“Someone will see…”

“No. You put enough money in the right hands and no one sees
a thing. The pool is closed for the night. No rooms look out over it. See?”

It was true. They were alone amid the chaises longues and
lush tropical plants.

“You had homework, Josie. Did you do your homework?”

“I don’t…”

“A safeword.”

“Right.” Her mind had gone blank. All she could think was,
Those
cheekbones should be illegal.

“Um, Transylvania.” It was the password she’d set up for her
private blog, taken from
Transylvania High
, one of the cartoons they’d
watched together on his bed in San Antonio.

“Transylvania? Righto. You’re not likely to use it in casual
conversation.”

She felt exposed. “This setting is more romantic than I had
in mind.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Is that so? What did you have in
mind?”

Bram looked so dangerous she lost the power of speech. He
climbed out of the pool, dripping with water, and took her by the arm. He was
already hard. “Does it involve being called a little slut? Only in this
context, mind. All part of the game. Yes or no.”

“Yes.”

“Suck my cock.”

She almost dropped to her knees before remembering. “No.”

He smiled, that little half-smirk that made her panties wet.
If she had been wearing any, which she wasn’t. So much for her worry he’d just
want to talk.

“Now you’re learning. Suck my cock.”

She shook him off. “Fuck you!”

“Oh, that is fine.” He stroked himself. “You’ll do as I say
or you’ll pay, slut.”

It took all her will to turn away from him, the sight of
that enormous cock between his slender hips. He grabbed her from behind,
kneading her breasts roughly. “You like that, don’t you?”

“Mmm.” He took a nipple between two fingers and pressed. It
felt amazing. “Oh god.”

“Still want to say no to me?” His voice was a rumble like
distant thunder.

“Bastard!” she spat.

“That’s fucking hot.” He fisted up her skirt. “No panties,
naughty slut.”

“I’m not your slut.”

“You’re juicy as hell,” he murmured, slipping a finger
inside her. It felt so good she held still, letting him ram his finger up into
her again and again. “Ready for a trip to Romania?”

A trip to…? Oh, the safeword. Hell, no. A million times no.

“I’m good. Don’t stop.”

“Then let’s get this off.” He tore the shirt over her head.
Josie looked around frantically. No windows overlooked the courtyard. A door
had been closed behind the gate. No one could see. She relaxed.

And bit his arm.

“Ow! That’s it. You’re in for it,” he growled.

Josie tried to keep the smile off her face as he turned her
by the shoulders. “Move and I’ll whip you ’til you cry.”

“Try it.”

He stalked to the table and swiped something from it then
tore at it with his teeth. He rolled the condom on, locking her eyes helplessly
on to his.

She gulped. “The extra-large kind?”

“I like a tight fit.” He smiled. “Where were we?”

“I’m your slut.”

“Not yet but you’re going to be. Lie down.”

Do it? Refuse? She was new at this game. All she knew was
she wanted that cock inside her. The night air tickled her nipples and a breeze
wafted up her skirt, chilling her wet thighs. How long could she hold out
before he’d take her? Or she’d jump his bones herself.

She made a decision.

“Fuck. You.”

He moved toward her slowly, stalking her like prey. “Wrong
answer, sunshine. Now I won’t even let you suck me.”

Bram had barely begun to reach for her when Josie
orchestrated what she thought was a pretty convincing fake fall back onto the
concrete. She lifted her fists to his chest and began to pummel.

“Fucking bastard!” she cried, ready to explode just from the
weight of him on top of her.

“Squirm if you like. It only makes me want you more. You
want my cock inside you, slut.”

“Yes,” she breathed. “I want it.”

He fitted himself deeply with one move, spearing her to the
hilt. He began to pound into her hard and fast, his hips pumping like a piston.
“Say it.” His breath was leather and tobacco and mint, ragged in her ear.

“Fuck me, Bram. Fuck me hard.”

His cock was untiring, a sledgehammer thundering away at her
pussy. The concrete was rough beneath her back, cooler even than the night air,
smelling of chlorine and wet stone. She felt her pulse racing and the slow
building roll begin inside her. Unable to stop herself, she let out a moan.

It was almost too late before she remembered. “Can I… Can I
come?” she panted.

“Yes. Oh god. Come, baby.” He reared up and their hips
smashed together. His cock pulsed, drew back and shot, letting free a rolling
vibration that hit her so deep she burst into a million pieces, shouting his
name.

She lay there for a long while trying to slow her breathing,
half-naked, her juices drying on her thighs, her hair a mess. When she opened
her eyes Bram was pouring champagne into a glass. She hadn’t even noticed the
bottle, so fixated had she been on the condom swallowing his cock.

“I should shower,” she ventured.

“Join me first.”

Josie giggled. “A toast?”

“Come here.”

She rose and moved toward the table as if hypnotized. Bram
held out a glass. When had he put his leather pants back on?

“Are you all right with this? It’s not for everybody.”

She sipped gratefully. “I liked it.” More than liked. She
loved every sinful second of it.

“A couple things to remember. You can stop at any time.”

“I know.”

“And you can’t be jealous.”

She put her glass down. “What?”

“You just can’t. That rot with the notebook bird today. It’s
not my reputation I’m protecting. It’s yours. Mine is beyond redemption.”

“You’re right. I don’t want my name sullied, whether it’s
the rest of the band that knows about us or the public. I’ll be careful. And
how many?”

He lit a cigarette. “How many what?”

“How many girls are we talking? That I shouldn’t be jealous
of.”

Bram shook his head. “It’s not the number that matters. It’s…”

Ice water filled her belly. Bram was never at a loss for
words.
It’s what?
she thought desperately.
It’s who?

“Just keep your head down and don’t be a fool girl,” he
finished.

“I will. I mean, I won’t.” She gulped the champagne. “What
did you mean about your reputation? Because I saw some things about you, on the
Web mostly.”

“Nasty stuff. Most of it tripe.”

“But some of it true?”

“If there’s something you want to know about me, Josie, just
ask.” His blue eyes were steady.

“I saw a whip in your suitcase in one picture.”

“That was from another time.”

“A good time?”

“Love—” He took her chin in one hand. “They’re all good
times.”

“But I mean, do you still want to? You know, with that?” She
heard herself babbling nonsense but could not stop.

Bram kissed her gently.

“Go to bed, Josie.”

* * * * *

Back in her room Josie tried to organize her concert notes
but her head was a jumble. All she could think about was Bram pounding into
her, her back roughened by the concrete, his moans in her ear.

She had reached some sort of threshold tonight and crossed
over without looking back. Fighting back, smarting off to a man who could have
any woman he wanted, being so desired by him—she hardly recognized the old
Josie in there. But she was the one he wanted. No reason to be jealous of
anyone, especially the little groupies who yearned for him. Nice girls, maybe,
simple, pretty girls like Melanie, but not his.

Shit, Melanie. She had meant to check that email.

She clicked open the laptop.

Are you writing porn now lol? Did this really happen or
is it your fantasy? Because if it’s your fantasy, OMG, it’s mine too!! Send
more. It gets lonely in L.A. Love you, Josie. Call me!

What the hell? Attached to the mail was a link to
Adventures
in Submission
, the secret blog she was keeping about her sexual journey.

Hastily she checked the privacy settings on the blog. Sure
enough she’d accidentally cut and pasted Mel’s address into Recipients.

Well, in for a penny,
she thought, beginning a new
post. Mel would bust a gasket when she heard about tonight.

She had an hour before going out to do research, something
she had woefully neglected until now. Domination planned to dominate the French
Quarter on their free night and Josie shuddered to think what sort of debauchery
the four of them would get into. With a reporter along for the ride, no less.
Debauchery wasn’t her strong suit.

But Bram seemed to disagree. “Leave the notebook, purse too,”
he’d told her. “And wear a dress.”

“Why?”

“I like dresses.”

“Yes, your highness. Anything else?”

“Riot helmet, maybe.”

After a shower and a time-consuming struggle to get soft
tendrils of hair to fall from her chignon just right, she put on makeup and
opened her laptop.

Domination’s lyrics weren’t hard to find or to figure
out—most were about darkness, nightmares, power, death and other cheery
subjects. Jet had been right. There weren’t a lot of rhymes for “blood”.

The later songs became more complex and obscure. A quick
search of key words revealed that the album
Ni Sanger
detailed the nine
worlds of Norse mythology. There was the unreleased
Violation
, of
course, Bram’s road-weary joke, which fans had tried to translate with
inaccurate results.

And then there was
Goddess of the Nightworld
.

She’ll worship you to hell and back/she’ll beat your body
blue and black/No comfort in this promised land/The ocean pulls you from the
sand/The soulless tart, she eats your heart/And spits the bones out in her
hand.

Yikes. Interesting rhyme scheme, though, and even if the
idea of a heart with bones was inaccurate, the image gave Josie the shivers.

Sounded like quite a girl. Could this be the one who hurt
Bram, the girl he couldn’t forget? No wonder he was still bitter. He made her
sound like an all-powerful being—vicious, gorgeous, irresistibly alluring but
marked with doom. Not someone the likes of whom petite, boring Josie Arrington
could possibly compete with. Not that she would ever have to. That girl was
long gone and Bram didn’t sound too eager to get in touch.

Anyway, Josie was not planning on breaking his heart. If he’d
give it to her, that is. Surely tonight in so public a venue he would hardly
acknowledge her.

She checked the album credits. It had been recorded two
years earlier, very sparely, from the looks of it. Bram produced it himself, no
outside musicians, no orchestra or fancy effects were credited. Just the
studio.

Earwig Recording, New Orleans.

* * * * *

Emerging into the humid night felt like being slapped with a
wet towel. No sooner had Josie joined the band on the sidewalk, beckoned by the
sounds of laughter and music, than dampness crept between her breasts.

It wasn’t much of a dress but it would have to do. She’d
thrown the pale-gray sleeveless thing in her bag as an afterthought. It had a
short, swingy skirt and the fabric clung to her chest. Even the color was
flattering, bringing out her gray eyes, which needed all the help they could
get. She poked in her contacts and found an orange scarf forgotten in her sack.
It looked forlorn, crumpled amid an optimistic nest of condom packages, also
forgotten.

The trip to Santa Barbara with Melanie, she recalled. At
least Mel had gotten laid that time.

Kraxis eyed the street, licking his lips. “I’m not waiting
for Varian.”

“He had a phone call to make,” said Jet. “So Bourbon Street,
ho!” He wore skintight black jeans and a shimmery silver tank top.

“Aye, let’s find us a Bourbon Street ho,” Kraxis leered.

“Won’t you be recognized?” asked Josie.

Bram shook his head. “New Orleans isn’t much of a heavy
metal town. Why do you think we didn’t play here?”

“That sucks.” Josie was more determined than ever to make
the blog a success. Next year Domination would headline…whatever arena the city
had.

“I have been on the business end of, ‘Aren’t you somebody?’
Always flattering,” he said wryly.

“Your American accent sucks,” laughed Josie. “So you’ve
visited here before?”

“Yeah.” That was all he gave her. A tanned blonde in her
carefully preserved forties walked past him, spun for a second look and
sauntered on, hips swinging.

No wonder. He looked downright edible, thighs taut in his
trademark leather pants, shoulders rock solid in a black T-shirt. Other women
on the street seemed to think so as well, as did some men. He was the target of
lascivious once-overs, provocative lip-licking and wide-eyed whispering. More
than one set of sorority-age girls nudged each other, whispering, “Who is that
guy?” But apparently none could place him. Domination might not have been a big
deal in New Orleans but Bram Hunter’s magnetic presence was just as
electrifying without a mike in his hand.

For a city overrun by tourists, the streets smelled surprisingly
sweet, like fresh greenery and flowers.

She wouldn’t think about the Goddess of the Nightworld,
whoever she was. No way she was handing over this evening and all that power to
some mysterious bitch who didn’t know what she had when she had it.

Around every corner another flowering plant perfumed the
air—jasmine, sweet olive, rosemary wafting from a private courtyard. Josie
goggled at the architecture, the beautiful scrollwork on the iron balconies and
the tropical colors of the buildings.

But as they strolled up the most famous street of all, the
scent of flowers gave way to spilled beer, vomit and human sweat. The least
offensive smell came from the remains of mule pies, left in the middle of the
road by carriage drivers unwilling to clean up after their beasts.
Torn-down-looking women haunted the doorways of strip clubs, costumed
characters roamed, pushing fliers, performing for tips or carrying signs for “Huge-Ass
Beers”.

Kraxis was on board with the last one. For good measure he
also bought each of them a bright-red Hurricane and didn’t spill a drop when a
couple as large as he was nudged him in passing.

“This is fucking horrible,” said Bram.

She took a sip. It wasn’t bad, more like a fruit punch than
a cocktail, but she knew better than to test that theory and gulp it down.

“It sucks a large amount of ass,” Jet agreed. “The drink,
the street and the whole thing.”

Only Kraxis was having a good time. He’d somehow gotten hold
of an entire roast chicken and was making quick but messy work of it,
entertaining the tourists. He drained a second huge-ass beer in one chug,
belched like a Tartar and won a round of applause.

Jet smiled benevolently. “He’ll be looking for a fight next.
I’d rather get in trouble elsewhere.”

“Bourbon and Saint Ann, doll-face.” A transvestite clicked
past them on the sidewalk, casting Jet a flirtatious look. “You won’t last two
minutes.”

Bram turned to Josie. “That leaves us. Where to?”

“Let’s just walk around for a while.”

“All right, but I warn you. The longer you make me refrain
from tearing that dress off your body with my teeth, the harder I’m going to be
on you later.”

She took his arm. “That’s what I’m counting on.”

But inside she was a writhing basket of worry-snakes. She
had fired off the second post for
Adventures in Submission
,
triple-checked that only Melanie could read it and started organizing her notes
for the blog. Artie had sent her the digital format specs and half of them didn’t
make sense
. I don’t even have a button for that symbol,
she’d thought
desolately, glaring at her keyboard as if to will it into being.

There had been nothing to do but call her editor and pester
him with questions. But it wasn’t Artie who picked up the phone.

“Warren Conrad’s office.”

“I need to speak to Artie.”

“Josie! Generous of you to check in. Artie’s out but you
still have me. Did he ever talk about how comfy this chair is?”

The penny dropped. Warren Conrad, nasty little rat with
whale-sized ambitions, not afraid of a little undercutting and story-stealing
and, Josie had always thought, originator of the “dick-sucking lips” title. He
used to lick Artie’s boots so transparently most of the office just laughed at
him.

Well, someone higher up had taken him seriously and now he
was in charge. Just great.

“I have some questions about this digital format thing.”

“Don’t worry about that. Send me your notes and I’ll get the
post out.”

“No,” she answered firmly. “I’m the writer. Just decode this
thing for me and I’ll put it in my words, my voice, with my own spin.”

She heard him chuckle unpleasantly. “No time for that. The
blog is blowing up and we need content. We’re even getting ad hits. If I’m
going to turn a profit on
Rock Star Online
you’ll have to do a little
work, sweets.”

“Warren, look—”

“Get that file to me ASAP. I’ll send it back for final
approval. Not that you can make any changes. It’s a legal issue.”

“What the hell?”

“I gotta jet, babe, no time to chat. You always did run that
pretty mouth of yours.” He hung up.

She punched keys, her cheeks flaming.
My writing, my
voice, my experience,
she thought miserably.
And even those are out of
my control.

Bram’s voice shook her back to the present. “You all right,
love?”

“Um, yeah, peachy keen. I won’t think about work tonight. So
when were you in New Orleans before?”

“Off and on,” he answered vaguely.

Frustrating. “What’s fun to do?”

“You’re fun to do. Oh, you mean in public.”

“Stop it!” But she couldn’t help giggling. “And yeah, about
that. Do you think, because you won’t be recognized… I mean, no one’s
reputation is on the line here. If we’re a, um, a couple, I guess maybe we
could… Are we a couple? That’s probably a strong word.”

Silently Bram looped her arm through his. She wondered
whether he’d ever been half of a couple before. She couldn’t imagine the
lone-wolf rock star walking arm in arm with a girl like an ordinary human
being—pursuing her, giving her flowers, taking her to dinner. Whatever lovers
do. She had never been an expert player in the dating game.

Good thing they had skipped that part because here she was,
publicly nestled against a man who made other women drool like starving dogs
catching sight of a pork chop. Yet someone had broken his heart. Who?

He steered her into a low-slung, half-timbered building
whose peeling exterior walls revealed ancient brickwork. Inside it was dark and
crowded, candles flickering on every table, the jukebox blaring a pop hit Josie
would have paid to never hear again.

“What is this place?”

“Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop, a front for notorious pirates.”

“In that case, you look right at home.”

He indicated a free table and headed toward the bar. Josie watched
the street outside. In front of the bar a carriage pulled up. The driver
dismounted and a waitress sauntered out, jotted something down and returned.
Frat-boy types shouted over the music, older couples looked around wonderingly,
a few people who seemed to be locals chatted amiably along the bar. It all
seemed incongruous with the gentle candlelight. She had always liked pop but
tonight it sounded insipid, bloodless and repetitive. This song in
particular—another pop tart saved by vocal modifiers and heavy production.

The music stilled as if the jukebox, insulted, had read her
mind. Bram placed a huge red drink in front of her. Josie eyed it dubiously.

“Hurricane.”

“Um… Aren’t you having one?”

One look shut her up. “It’s not the slop you had before,” he
went on, taking a sip of whiskey. “They make them with real fruit juice and
fifteen kinds of liquor, something like that. “

“Are you trying to get me drunk?”

“Do I need to?”

She tasted the drink. Delicious but deadly, as promised. “What
do you usually do here?”

Bram looked away. In the candlelight his cheekbones stood
out in stark relief. “Get in a fair bit of trouble, as it happens. Thought I’d
try something new. I heard somewhere birds like to dance.”

“Dance? No, not this bird. Nuh-uh.”

“How about standing around swaying a bit?”

As he spoke the music kicked in again, a slow, loping tune,
sad and hopeful at the same time. “I’m walkin’ to New Orleans,” sang…

“Fats Domino! Now that’s more like it.”

She took Bram’s hand and stood. He pulled her into his arms
and began a slow side-by-side step even she could keep up with.

As if by magic the candlelight faded, the chatter of the
crowd fell away. Josie felt as if she and Bram were alone in the bar, the city,
the universe, lit from within. She buried her nose in his hair, breathed in his
leathery, masculine scent.

With me, with me,
she thought.
He chose me.
Not
Bram Hunter, rock god, but this man who I’d want if he were a ditch-digger or a
—she
tried to think of some horrible profession—
a lawyer.

The song ended too soon. She blinked the world back into
focus. “Bram? Did you ever want to be a lawyer?”

“Have you gone mad?”

“Sorry.” They sat as another tune cranked up, a melancholy
blues number. “What’s up with the jukebox?” she asked, pulling at her straw.

“Got the barmaid to pull the plug and reboot.”

She smiled. “For me?”

“For me, more like. I don’t like throwing around money to
get what I want, Josie, but it was either that or kick the thing to pieces.”

“I would have beat you to it.”

“Oh?” he said with a teasing smile. “Coming around to
Domination, are you? We’re going to have to get you kitted up. I’m thinking a
leather mini and a few tattoos.”

“As you people say, not bloody likely. Fuck! Why now?” She
dug the beeping cell phone out of her purse. “I have to take this. It’s
probably Melanie, but my new editor is supposed to send…”