Unraveled (3 page)

“I’ll take a Coke.”

She filled a glass with ice and soda before he got his wallet out. “No charge for
designated drivers.”

He dropped three bucks on the bar top and headed back to his friends. Only Gil remained
at the table. “Where’d everyone go?”

“Katie got a phone call and left. Fee decided Blue had enough to drink so she took
his keys and drove home. Deacon . . . I don’t know what happened to him.”

“He’s dancing with Shiori.”

“I’m surprised he stuck around as long as he did. He’s seriously on edge.”

“And he’ll be like that until his next fight is over.”

Gil picked at the bar napkin beneath his empty beer glass. “He’s gonna get his ass
beat.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because Deacon doesn’t care about winning. He cares about
fighting.” Gil glanced up. “Sensei Black is a jujitsu master. He’s been a fighter.
But he’s not an MMA coach. No offense, but neither are you. If Black Arts wants the
fighters on their roster to win, you’ll have to recruit coaching talent, not more
fighters.”

The rivalry between Black Arts and ABC had lessened as the two dojos were under the
same Black Arts umbrella. And it pained Knox to admit it, but Gil was right. Ronin
had added ten new fighters to train at Black Arts. Out of five bouts in the last fight—which
was more of an amateur “smoker”—they’d had one winner. ABC had four winners out of
five.

“You pissed off at me now?” Gil asked.

“No. I’m frustrated because I know you’re right. And I don’t know what I can do about
it.”

“As of this week you’re in charge. If there’s ever been any time that you can make
a change, it’ll be in the next two months when Ronin isn’t here.”

Knox’s gaze sharpened. “You’re suggesting . . . what exactly?”

“Make the Black Arts MMA program a priority by hiring a high-profile professional
trainer. That way maybe Black and Blue Promotions can move out of the smoker category
and get into the real fight-promotion business too.”

“Did Blue tell you to talk to me? As one second-in-command to another?”

Gil shook his head. “My first loyalty is to Blue and ABC. But I also know ABC would’ve
had to disband if it hadn’t been for Ronin’s assistance. A stronger Black Arts MMA
program only strengthens our position. I’m not looking to sabotage either dojo; I’m
only looking to bolster the entire organization.”

“Let’s say I agree with you. A high-profile trainer doesn’t come cheap. I don’t have
financial discretion at Black Arts, and if I bring someone new on board without Ronin’s
approval, he’ll just shitcan the guy the second he’s back in charge.”

“You don’t have financial discretion, but Shiori does,” Gil said
slyly. “If you can convince her to back your plan, she’ll free up the funds to pay
a trainer’s salary. And don’t discount Hachidan Black’s reputation as the real deal.
I’ll bet you’d be surprised by the number of trainer applicants you’d get just on
that alone.”

Knox scrubbed his hands over his face. “Fuck, Gil. Why’d you bring this up now?” Then
it clicked. He lowered his hands. “You know a trainer who’s looking to jump ship.”

“Yes. I’m worried once word gets out he’s ready to move on, people will start offering
him the moon and the stars.” Gil leaned forward. “This guy needs a change, and the
right
offer will hook him more than a big offer.”

“Stop fucking around and tell me who we’re talking about.”

Gil paused. “I need your promise it doesn’t leave this table. Your solemn promise.”

Knox almost snapped off, “I prefer pinkie promises,” but he reined it in. “Fine. You’ve
got my word.”

“Maddox Byerly.”

His jaw dropped. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“No.”

“Why the fuck is he leaving TGL?” TGL—Tieg, Garvey, Linson—based in LA, culled only
the best of the best for their MMA roster. They’d trained UFC champs, Bellator champs,
Strikeforce champs, but their biggest claim to fame was Judson DeSilva, nine-time
world champion. DeSilva had won three world championship titles in each division he
fought in—an unheard-of feat. Different divisions had different training regimens
because weight and size determined the level of physical activity. And who’d trained
DeSilva in all three divisions? Maddox Byerly.

“He’s going through a messy divorce. TGL wanted to ‘brand’ him and then use that as
a selling point to franchise TGL.” At Knox’s blank look, Gil clarified. “Like the
Gracie Method in Brazilian jujitsu. TGL called it the Maddox Effect.”

“Jesus.”

“Maddox hates that corporate mentality. He wants to train individual fighters, not
be responsible for a style of fighting.”

“How do you know all this?”

Gil’s lips tightened. “Because he’s married to—soon to be divorced from—my psycho
sister, Roxanna. The split has been a long time coming.”

“Holy shit, man. He’s your brother-in-law?”

“I see the question in your eyes. And yes, Maddox was a long shot to bail ABC out
of trouble, but it didn’t come to that. He’s aware of who Ronin is, even when he’s
not fully invested in the martial-arts world. So I think the right offer, the chance
to relocate and the guarantee he’ll be treated like an individual with autonomy and
not a commodity would sway him.”

“You got any sway with him?”

“Some. I got along better with him than with my sister. I actually told him he was
fucking crazy to want to be with her. So he knows it’s no bullshit with me.”

Knox’s eyes narrowed. “So why aren’t you aligning Maddox with ABC?”

“Because Blue can’t afford him. Ronin Black can. And if Maddox is under the Black
Arts umbrella . . .”

“Then chances are good he’ll be working with ABC fighters too.”

Gil grinned.

“You’re a sneaky bastard.”

He laughed. “There is a devious mind behind these good looks, amazing physique, and
Brazilian charm.”

“Snake charmer is more like it,” Deacon said, snagging the chair next to Gil. “What’s
going on?”

Knox had gotten so sucked into the conversation with Gil that he’d forgotten Deacon’s
dick move. “Where’s Shiori?”

“She went home. Her car service picked her up.”

“Why the fuck did you—”

Gil stood. “I’ve had enough drama for one night. See you guys in the morning.” Gil’s
parting shot at Knox was, “Think about what I said.”

As soon as Gil was gone, Deacon started in. “I did you a fuckin’ favor cutting you
off with Shiori when I did. You would’ve dry humped her right on the damn dance floor
in front of everyone. And while that
so what
look in your eyes is charming as hell, keep in mind that other instructors from other
martial-arts studios hang out here. After the bullshit Ronin went through with Amery,
I can’t shake the feeling someone is still gunning for Black Arts. I hope I’m wrong,
but in the meantime don’t bump and grind on Ronin Black’s sister in public where anyone
can snap a fucking picture of it, okay?”

“I get what you’re saying, but it wasn’t like that between us. It was a nice change
that we weren’t trying to knock each other out.”

“Fine. Great. It’s a fuckin’ relief to all of us who have to work with you two that
you’ve learned how to deal. But don’t turn the fact you don’t want to kill each other
into something more, something it ain’t, something it’ll never be, dig?”

“Why? Did she say something about me?”

“Christ, Knox. Did you really just ask me that? This ain’t third grade.” Deacon laced
his hands together and placed them on top of his head. “How long’s it been since you
were at Twisted?”

“Two weeks. Why?”

“Go tomorrow night. Beat the shit out of someone and get fuckin’ laid. Then I’ll bet
Shiori won’t look so damn appetizing to you.”

Not a bet Knox would take. If he’d been insanely attracted to her even when he wanted
to stuff her face into the mat most days, he suspected that attraction wouldn’t fade
now.

But in Deacon’s world everything was cut-and-dried. So Knox told him what he wanted
to hear. “You’re probably right. Let’s get out of here. We’ve got an early training
day tomorrow.”

As they walked toward Deacon’s car, he said, “What were you and Gil talking about?
It looked intense.”

He could bounce the idea of hiring Maddox Byerly off Deacon, but he wanted to run
it by Shiori first. Get her financial take on it. “His sister is going through a divorce.
He just needed someone to talk to.”

“Thank god it was you and not me who got roped into that conversation.”

“One of these days, Deacon, the idea of talking things out with someone won’t send
you running toward the nearest strip club for validation that you’ve got balls.”

“Don’t bet on it.”

SATURDAY
night Shiori walked into the main lounge area of Twisted like she owned the place.
The immediate buzz of interest fed her ego, which hadn’t been stroked in so long she’d
almost forgotten that feeling of power.

The first man to approach her was Merrick McBride, the club’s owner. He clasped both
of her hands in his and kissed her cheeks. “Mistress B, it’s an honor that you’ve
joined us.”

“Thank you.” She looked around the space—a horseshoe-shaped bar, a large meet-and-greet
lounge area with couches, chairs, and floor cushions. The hallways that led to the
private playrooms allowed for a separation of casual conversation from serious play.

Master Merrick gave her a slow perusal. For tonight’s fun and games, Shiori had donned
a platinum wig and a cream-colored lace mask. She’d gone for the traditional Domme
look in clothing: a black leather vest with burgundy laces up the front, a pair of
hip-hugging burgundy leather pants, and four-inch black platform booties.

She fought the urge to fiddle with the gold band adorning her wrist, which denoted
her Domme status at the club. “Do I pass inspection, Master Merrick?”

His hungry gaze met hers. “You are stunning. You’ll have subs
falling at your feet tonight.” He cocked his head. “I’m curious about the mask. When
I did your background check, I was told that’s always been part of your persona at
the club in Tokyo.”

“So why would I continue that here in the United States when there’s a slim possibility
someone will recognize me?” She leaned in. “Besides the fact I’m Ronin Black’s sister?”

“Your brother hasn’t been here in ages. Which is unfortunate for me, from a business
standpoint, because we have some of our biggest crowds when he gives demos.”

“I imagine the
bakushi
master is a huge draw to show off his rope skills. He’s been through a lot of changes
in the past several months, but I’m confident he will return to do demos at some point.”
Ronin’s wife had put off any discussion of Ronin doing bondage demos while he was
on medical restrictions due to injuries. But Shiori knew now that he’d been cleared
by his doctors, his need to teach would force that issue between them—sooner rather
than later. “I assume you mentioned my pending membership to my brother?”

Master Merrick shook his head. “I merely verified you’re his sister. It’s against
the rules to divulge members’ names—real or the personas they choose to use.”

Shiori touched the mask. “Which is why I wore this. It’s become such a part of Mistress
B that I felt naked without it.”

“It adds another layer of mystery to the exotically beautiful Mistress you already
are.” He kissed her hand again. “Anytime you decide you want to test your limits on
whether you might be a switch, you let me know. I would love to tear that mask away
and see the real woman beneath.”

Her belly did a slow curl. She touched Master Merrick’s face. He was beautiful, the
epitome of an all-American guy with his classically handsome looks, athletic body,
and easy charm. He definitely had that Master’s way about him—where she felt the pull
to do what he commanded. “You are a dangerously sexy man, Master
Merrick. You almost make me question my orientation.” She smiled. “
Almost
. And I promise if I’m ever in the mood to be topped, you’re the first man I’ll call.”

He laughed. “I’ll hold you to that. Now, would you like me to introduce you around?”

“I’ll take you up on that later. Right now I’d like to have a glass of wine and get
the lay of the land, so to speak.”

“Understood.” He turned and crooked his finger at a young man poised at the end of
the bar. “Tell Greg to pour Mistress B a glass of my private reserve.”

“Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”

“I rate the private reserve on my first night?”

“I imagine a woman of your stature doesn’t drink house wine.”

Her stature. There was another reminder on why she’d chosen the mask and become Mistress
B. Then no one knew her as a corporate executive and an heiress to billions; they
saw her as formidable for an entirely different reason. She flashed Master Merrick
a frosty smile. “My stature in the club is Mistress B, and I’m perfectly content drinking
house wine. But I do appreciate your gift as a one-time-only welcome gesture.”

His eyebrows rose. Then he smiled. “Understood. And I see that you and I will get
along very well indeed, Mistress.”

After Master Merrick handed her the glass of wine, he took his leave.

Shiori sipped her wine. This definitely wasn’t the house special. She looked around
and realized she was still getting curious stares. It would be interesting to see
who approached her first. When she turned, she realized part of the reason for the
attention she’d garnered was the young submissive sitting at her feet. “You may look
at me,” she said softly.

He tipped his head back and gazed at her with wonder.

Oh, how she’d missed that. “What’s your name?”

“Justin, Mistress.”

“Well, Justin. Why are you sitting at my feet?”

“Because I want to serve you tonight, Mistress.”

She took another long sip of the luscious red wine and considered him. He was young—twenty-two
at the most. He had the blond hair, sharply defined cheekbones, and icy blue eyes
she associated with a Nordic gene pool. He wore a tiny pair of black athletic shorts
and the green bracelet that identified him as a submissive.

“I can strip so you can decide whether my body pleases you,” he offered.

“Tell me, Justin. Do you have a preference on whether you submit to a Master or a
Mistress?”

“No, Mistress, no preference.”

Such a shame. She didn’t waste time with men who went both ways. She smoothed her
hand over his soft hair. “I appreciate your honesty. You’re dismissed.”

He lowered his head, and his shoulders slumped. “Thank you, Mistress, for the consideration.”

She wandered over to the bar.

The bartender smiled at her and offered his hand. “I’m Greg.”

She shook his hand, noticing he didn’t wear a bracelet. “Mistress B. I’m new to this
club, and I’m not exactly sure what that signifies.” She gestured to the black band
around his biceps.

“The black bands are worn by security, although that’s a loose interpretation of what
I do. I float between keeping an eye on the rooms to make sure the rules are being
followed, to pouring drinks, to providing certain services to submissives as well
as Masters and Mistresses.”

“‘Certain services’ sounds ominous.”

He shrugged. “It means sometimes I function as a third player in threesomes. Or mete
out discipline. I intervene if a submissive uses their safe word in a scene. Pretty
much jack-of-all-trades.”

“So is it like an apprentice level? Before you become a Master?”

“No. Black bands are their own station here. Not everyone
aspires to be Dominant. Or submissive. We are the peacekeepers, and we keep the balance
in check. We are neutral.”

“It’s the first I’ve heard of that kind of role in a club like this.”

“Merrick doesn’t define the club, except for the privacy policy. So the members run
the gamut from hard-core pain sluts, to newly ‘out’ submissives who aren’t sure what
aspect of BDSM appeals to them—although that’s usually limited to the Friday night
membership—to dabblers in the lifestyle, to Dominants and subs just out for a good
time, or on the flip side, Dominants and subs looking for a permanent partner. That
means the membership fluctuates.” He grinned. “Which makes my job interesting.”

“I’ll bet. So are there any special events going on tonight?”

“A violet wand demo on the main floor. Besides that, just the usual.” He sipped from
a bottle of water. “What specifically are you looking for tonight, Mistress B?”

“Are you asking because I sent Justin on his merry way?”

“I’m asking because maybe I can help you out.”

She smiled at him. “I’m interested only in hetero male subs, if you’re curious about
me.”

He grinned back. “Never hurts to ask.”

Shiori finished her wine and slid the empty glass toward him. “Thanks for the info.”
She adjusted her vest and headed down the hallway to see what awaited her.

*   *   *

KNOX
twisted the handle as he swung, sending the flogger to reconnect with the same section
of skin as the last three blows. The man made a loud “uff” of pain and his Master
stepped in.

“He’s done.”

“Sir, I can take more,” the man in the chains protested.

Knox didn’t get involved in the argument. While he had a break, he grabbed the towel,
mopped his face, and stepped in front of the fan to cool down. He uncapped a bottle
of water and drained the entire thing in four long swallows.

Master Rand motioned to him to help unhook his sub from the chains.

As soon as the guy was freed, he sank to his knees. He wrapped one hand around the
back of Knox’s calf. “Thank you. That was . . . what I needed.”

“Happy to help.” He watched as Master Rand hauled his sub to his feet and led him
away.

One down; one to go.

He twisted his neck and shoulders, trying to ease the ache in the middle of his back.
He’d need a massage after his last scene tonight. Master Angus expected that immediate
explosion of pain from the first lash to the last lash. No buildup, just continual
bombardment for fifteen minutes. Having a set time frame helped Knox keep his stamina.
Wielding a whip for that long took its toll on him as well. Everyone expected a big
guy like him to have superior strength and staying power, so that’s the image he maintained
even if he could barely move the next day. He’d gotten smart and limited himself to
three sessions in a night, so his skills were in high demand for those members who
craved the type of pain he provided.

Stepping out of the hot box, Knox noticed a crowd had gathered in front of one of
the open-use rooms. He meandered that way, thankful his height allowed him to see
over everyone’s heads.

But he didn’t have the greatest view of what held the crowd enthralled, so he got
closer.

A platinum-blond Domme in leathers was whipping Dex, a male submissive, with a short-handled
whip. The instrument of torture wasn’t as interesting as where she was leaving marks.
She’d reddened the area around both of his nipples and the skin below his hip bones.
She’d stretched him out—a spreader bar between his ankles and his arms equal distance
apart above his head. That position gave her access to the front and the back sides
of his body.

Dex had been a club member for a few years and hadn’t asked
Knox to deliver the pain, but most of Knox’s scenes were at the behest of submissives’
Masters and Mistresses. Since Dex was an unattached sub, Knox wondered who the woman
was, because she clearly knew what she was doing. Dex’s cock, bound with a strap,
was fully erect.

Knox watched as she cracked the whip and the tip landed on the inside of Dex’s thigh.
His entire body jerked and he started to beg her to let him come. But she didn’t respond;
she just gave him a matching whip kiss on the inside of his other thigh.

Dex hissed—a sound of pain tinged with pleasure.

When the Domme walked behind Dex and delivered two strikes to the backs of his legs,
Knox studied her. Her hair might be real, but he doubted it. And then there was the
mask that covered her face.

She grabbed Dex by the hair and pulled his head back so she could speak directly into
his ear.

He nodded and squirmed when she coiled the whip around his calf with a flick of her
wrist and dragged it up. Then she did the same thing on the other side. She reached
between his legs and released the cock restraint.

His relief was short-lived when she snapped two hard strikes on his inner thighs and
followed through with two more hard strikes on his balls. He immediately started to
come, and the Domme used the handle of the whip like a riding crop, connecting with
the marks on his inner thighs as he shot his load into the air.

When he slumped against the chains, the crowd thinned.

But Knox remained in place, watching the Domme bring her sub down to earth with whispered
words and gentle touches on his chest and back.

And Dex looked at her adoringly.
Dex
. The submissive the Dommes always complained about because he tried to top from below.

When the blond Domme circled Dex and came to stand in front of him, Knox had a niggling
sense of familiarity. When she
stood on tiptoe to release Dex’s arms from the cuffs, her identity hit him with the
force of a spinning back fist to the head.

He knew that biteable ass.

He knew she struggled to reach items in the storeroom because she was so short.

When she turned her head, Knox groaned.

He knew those fucking luscious lips too.

In the past eight months he’d fantasized way too many times about taking that sassy
mouth in a dozen different ways. And he almost had last night.

Knox watched the rest of the scene unfold. After she freed Dex from his wrist and
ankle restraints, she sat him in a chair and draped a blanket around him. She handed
him a bottle of water, and when he was too shaky to drink, she helped hold it to his
mouth.

This wasn’t her first time dealing with a submissive’s aftercare.

As if her expertise with a whip wasn’t already a sign she was no amateur playing a
role.

But fuck him.

Shiori Hirano was a Domme.

A fucking
Domme
.

He shook his head to clear it and watched as Dex dropped to his knees in front of
her. He wrapped one arm around her shin and looked up at her beseechingly.

She petted his hair and spoke so softly Knox couldn’t hear. But whatever she’d said
had pleased Dex, and he stood, clutching the blanket around his naked form before
he wandered off.

Leaving the two of them alone.

From the shadows he said, “I like you as a platinum blonde, She-Cat.”