But I just couldn’t say goodbye right then. Not when he’d just told me he’d missed me but after we’d dressed, and headed to the car, I remember holding my breath, after asking, “Where are we going?” afraid it would be some familiar spot that would stir more of those old feelings.
He’d surprised me though, and opened my car door, to announce, “Someplace new. Someplace you pick.”
“Me?”
“Yes. You.”
And since as my master he always chose, I knew this was him telling me, he was really trying to give us a new future. “There’s this hole in the wall Italian place,” I said. “I love it and I want to go there.”
“Then we’ll go there,” he’d said.
And so we went to dinner, and while we didn’t share deep, dark secrets, we’d talked about art, which we both love, for hours. While true, even as his submissive, I’d shared dinners and conversation, with him, and there was always a bond between us, it felt different. Maybe because we’d had that passionate explosion that started the night. Maybe because at the end of the night he’d taken me home and kissed me on my doorstep, before leaving with a promise I’ll never forget. He’d held me close, his lips near my ear, as he’d said, “If I don’t leave now, I’ll do things a proper gentleman would not do to you.” He’d turned then and left me tormented. Because you see, I do not want him to be a proper gentleman. I just don’t want him to be my master.
And that brings me back to the package, that I fear is an invitation to be his submissive again.
Tuesday, seven am
I woke up in a cold sweat, gasping for air. I’d had the nightmare again only this time I wasn’t in the icy bay water. I was on that trolley, racing toward the plunge that never happened, dreading it. Fearing it. If dreams have meanings to me this one was about the package I haven’t opened. It was telling me that dread and fear, feels as horrible as an unpleasant outcome we don’t want to be real. And you see, fear is what kept me ever entering the art world, where pay tends to be low, and dreams high. But I’ve made it work. Because I got over the fear. I don’t ever want to live my life in fear again.
So I opened the package, and inside was the ring he’d given me as his submissive, but the note inside, stunned me:
Rebecca,
It belongs to you, the way you once belonged to me.
That is all the note says. He does not even sign it. And I don’t know what it means. I just know that as much as I love that ring, I’m not ready to put it back on my finger. Because you see, I fear losing him. I do. I’d admit that to no one but myself. But I fear losing me more than I do him and I was losing me as his submissive. So I put it on a chain around my neck. It’s a message to him. He can have me but this time, it’s on my terms.
Wednesday, twelve pm
Have you ever gone to bed dreading the next day then woke up and felt the same? Not because you just didn’t want to get out of bed. More like something was wrong. Something was going to go wrong this day. That’s how I felt this morning when I woke up, and it had nothing to do with a nightmare. For once, I didn’t have one. I thought perhaps it was about my former Master discovering the necklace that would bind us together, on a chain at my neck, rather than on my finger. I mean, yes, I want more from him, but the truth is, I have enough self worth that I do not need more at the cost of settling. And I don’t think that is what he really needs or wants either. I think I fear finding out I’m not the person who can help him see that though. That I’m really not the woman for him. But if that’s true, then parting ways is right for both of us. Painfully right. Anyway, maybe that was part of the dread I was feeling, but it felt more foreboding.
The day has officially started weird. This morning, I arrived at the gallery and parked in the back lot, only to find no other cars. Everyone but me seemed to be running late. I headed inside and the lights were out. I left them off because I didn’t want to encourage people to come to the front door when no one else was there. But here’s the weird part. I entered the back offices and my light was on. Bossman, as everyone calls our boss, left after me last night. He’s methodical and anal. Even if I had forgotten to turn my light off, which I wouldn’t do, he would never have left it on. A shiver of unease had slid down my spine and I’d pulled my phone from my purse and dialed “911” without punching the call button. Just to be safe. A girl who is single, and a girl who was raised by an absent single mother, learns to be cautious.
I walk to the door and peek around the corner, and to say that I was stunned is an understatement. Mary, my co-worker, who not only has an obvious crush on Bossman, but wants the opportunities he’s allowed me with his family’s auction house letting me place and sell through them, was sitting at my desk, reading one of my journals. I felt violated. Which is crazy considering the things I’ve done at the club with a master in control but that had been a choice and I’d always known, no matter how uncomfortable I felt, that he’d protect me. I’d also known I’d made the choice to do those things, no matter how reluctantly at times. But this. This I did not choose. This was, is, an invasion of my privacy. Thankfully, it was my work journal, which was at least a little less invasive but it still had my inner most personal thoughts on the staff and our clients. On her.
I rounded the corner. “What are you doing?” I’d demanded.
Shock had radiated across her pale face, and she shoved her bleached blonde hair behind her ears. “Oh I…I…” She’d shut the journal and shoved it in the drawer. “I was looking for sales records for last month. I can’t find them and need to do a presentation for Bossman.” She’d stood up. “You weren’t in and I was desperate.”
“How long did desperate make you read my journal?” I’d asked.
“Journal? That book? I’d just opened it. I need to get to my desk.” She’d rushed toward me and I wanted to stand my ground and make her explain herself, but really, what would it have solved? She’d lie and it would get more awkward. But the interesting thing. She didn’t ask me for those sales figures.
I’d rushed to my desk and opened my drawer, removing the journal to thumb through, wondering how bad the damage would be from my words. I’d barely opened it when I’d heard, “Ms. Mason.”
My gaze had jerked up to find Bossman himself leaning on the archway of my doorway, his blue suit, fitted to perfection, his very presence an explosion of power. And my God. He’s just so overwhelmingly male. So overwhelmingly good looking. It’s hard to work for a man like that.
“Mr. Compton,” I’d said.
“Why was Mary in your office?” he’d asked, his stare hooded, his tone unreadable but somehow expectant.