The Dollhouse Society: Margo (14 page)

I was something of a slob. Sue me. But who was looking at me? I was the tech guy, the guy no one ever wanted to see unless their computer crashed or their Blackberry went on the fritz. There was a time before my twenty-fifth birthday when I could still make a man or woman’s head turn, but I knew damned well that those days were behind me. My last partner had left me, citing the fact that he could no longer live with my slovenly, workaholic self. My ship had long sailed. Mr. Chase’s offer made no sense to me.

“I think I mis-heard you…” I began.

“No, Ash, you didn’t.” Again he looked me over, but his look was different this time, more intense, and I squirmed under it. He settled on the arm of the settee and gave me his sharp little wolf eyes. This close, I could smell his spicy cologne—which just made me want to squirm more. I’d always been a sucker for a guy who smelled really good. “There’s no easy way of explaining this, so I’ll just be blunt and go ahead. I’m part of a private society of gentlemen who keep sexual companions. Courtesans and courtiers, depending on their gender. I’ve been part of this society for many years. In fact, I’ve kept a courtesan for more than five years now.”

I drank down a gulp of bourbon as I digested that. “So you have a…courtesan…sexual companion, whatever. What do you need me for?”

Mr. Chase’s mouth quirked up in a brief smile. “The Society has recently opened its doors to same-sex couples in a very big way. Up until now, taking a same-sex companion was discouraged, but the people I know have evolved gracefully into the new century and they want to give those of us who are bisexual or gay more play space, so to speak.”

I almost choked. Mr. Chase had never,
ever
, struck me as anything but straight up all-natural, boring vanilla. “I don’t know what to say,” I admitted. “Isn’t soliciting sex from someone a crime?”

Mr. Chase looked unperturbed. “The Society predates such laws. And I am not soliciting sex from you, Ash, although sex would be involved. I’m offering to make you my companion in the Society. Being my companion—my courtier—is much more involved than just soliciting your services as a stud.”

I couldn’t believe I was actually considering this, but I asked, “What exactly
is
involved? The sex part I get, but…what else is there, really?” I flinched when I realized how hard and cynical I sounded.

Mr. Chase tilted his head as he answered. “Gatherings, functions, balls, intimate dinners. All the things that companions share.”

“Like…dating?”

“We can include that, yes, if you want.”

I thought about dating Mr. Chase, which I found, admittedly, pretty exciting. But something about what he’d said about me being a courtier stopped me from saying yes just yet. “It’s not…I mean, you’re not talking about an even partnership, are you?” A thought occurred to me. “Are you a dom or something? I mean, are you into kink?”

“I’m a gentleman,” he said only, then rose to fetch a manila folder from his top desk drawer. He offered it to me. It was thick and I realized then that he was really serious about this stuff. “Everything you need to know to make your decision is here. If you decide to take me up on my offer, stay after work and meet me downstairs in the underground parking garage by my limousine. If I see you there after dark, I’ll know you’re serious about being my companion.” He took my hand brought my knuckles to his lips, kissing me like a suitor in some Jane Austen novel. “I do hope you’ll make it,” he said before dismissing me for the day.

***

Read an excerpt from
Beauty’s Sleep (50 Shades of Fairy Tales)
by Alex Crossman:

Usually, when a gal’s divorce papers first come through, she does something wild and spontaneous. Cuts and dyes her hair fuchsia, buys that chic little cocktail dress she never would have worn in any other life, takes a long-anticipated cruise. Unfortunately, I was neither wild nor spontaneous, and my best friends Sierra and Juanita were the first to complain about that.

“You never get out, Fern,” they’d berate me. “You never live, chica!” “You don’t have the salsa, gringo-girl!” This last was said with a great big grin on my friend Sierra’s pretty face, who was, herself, half “gringo”.

Of our little trio, I was the practical one, the one who had gone to medical school and had studied hard, who was dedicated to my job as an EMT First Responder. I had originally wanted to be a doctor, a pediatrician, but I soon learned that I loved the high energy of emergency work. I loved working over a cardiac arrest victim, or the victim of a shooting or drug overdose, and watching the hope in their faces when they realized that because of me, they were still breathing, still alive. For me, that was excitement, fulfillment and joy all wrapped up in one package.

My marriage was another matter. At first I blamed myself, telling myself over and over that the long hours and swing shifts driving an ambulance were driving Chuck crazy, that he was a good man who lived with a crazy wife who worked a crazy job. It was hard not to feel guilty. In some ways, I felt I was putting work before my marriage, something my conservative mother didn’t approve of and complained about constantly. 

When Chuck’s drinking started, I felt even guiltier, like it was my fault. I begged Chuck to go to AA meetings, to get a mentor, to get help. I was willing to help him anyway I could, but Chuck was a cop on the Chicago PD, he was a tough guy by nature, and I knew how he and his friends were: any cry for help was a sign of weakness, proof that they were not men. They all drank draft beer, went to ballgames, and talked about how their wives were ball-busters. I took it all in stride, trying to be there for Chuck the way I was there for Clive every night, my First Responder partner.

Then Chuck hit me.

I figured it was a one-off, everything coming to a head like a bad boil and breaking open. I thought we would heal after that, and for a while we did and things were good again. Then we had a pregnancy scare—my period was late and I was sure I had forgotten to take my morning pill that day. I’d been exhausted the day before, my brain muddied by hours of driving an ambulance through endless lower Chicago traffic while a gang of youths who had shot each other in a gang war bled all over the floor of the ambulance. Chuck said I’d forgotten accidently on purpose, that I wanted some brat so I wouldn’t have to work. Then he accused me of having an affair with Clive. I tried to be understanding; I knew he’d been drinking all evening. I tried to take the bottle away and he punched me in the stomach.

It turned out I wasn’t pregnant, thank God. But something about that last night finally got through to me. I finally stopped making excuses for Chuck’s drinking and behavior and swiftly moved out of our little suburban house. I went to live with my friend Sierra for a few weeks until I could get my own apartment in the city. About that time, I started my divorce proceedings.

Chuck showed up maybe a half dozen times, bearing increasingly expensive gifts and begging me to forgive him and take him back. He insisted he was a changed man after that last incident, that it had scared him sober. But I knew better. His dad was an alcoholic who had beat the crap out of his mom for almost thirty years. Well, I wasn’t about to become another battered woman, another statistic to be carried away in an ambulance one day. I sent him away, and when that wasn’t good enough for Chuck, I got a restraining order against him.

The day the divorce papers came through, I called Sierra and Juanita and told them my exciting news. I thought I would feel sad or disappointed that my marriage hadn’t turned out the way I’d wanted, but instead I felt relieved—and incredibly alive for a change. It felt like a black cloud had lifted from over my head. I realized I was free of Chuck, that this was a new start for me. We went out drinking and dancing all night, and my two best Latinas were only too happy to drag me to a series of cheesy pickup bars and salsa clubs.

I woke up the next morning in my brand new apartment, sleeping on my brand new mattress set, sans bed frame (I’d given Chuck all our furniture in the divorce settlement; I wanted nothing to remind me of him or our time together), my head pounding from too many margaritas, grinning like crazy, with the sun in my eyes. It was Saturday, I was off work, and I was a gal on a mission to outfit this sexy new apartment of mine and celebrate my new freedom.

***

Also Available from Courtesan Press:

Indecent Proposal

Dreams in Black & White

Playing House

Freeze Frame

The Dollhouse Society Volume I: Evelyn

The Rules of Engagement

Big, Bad Wolf

The War of the Roses

The Dollhouse Society Volume II: Rachaela

Eyes Wide Open

Touch

Teacher’s Pet

Angel in the Dark

The Dollhouse Society Volume III: Daniel

Lady Luck

House of Dolls

The Reluctant Bride

A Woman on Top

The Dollhouse Society Volume IV: Lucky

All I Want for Christmas: A Dollhouse Society One Shot

Red (50 Shades of Fairy Tales)

Puss ‘N Books (50 Shades of Fairy Tales)

Snow (50 Shades of Fairy Tales)

The Little Mermaid (50 Shades of Fairy Tales)

50 Shades of Fairy Tales: Courtesan Press Collection No. 1

50 Shades of Fairy Tales: Volume I

The Beauty of the Beast (50 Shades of Fairy Tales)

Rumpelstiltskin (50 Shades of Fairy Tales)

Cinderfella (50 Shades of Fairy Tales)

Beauty’s Sleep (50 Shades of Fairy Tales)

50 Shades of Fairy Tales Volume II

50 Shades of Fairy Tales: Courtesan Press Collection No. 2

50 Shades of Fairy Tales Volume III

***

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