Unholy Promises (25 page)

Such tenderness, such incredible empathy is as mesmerizing as it was unexpected, reminding me immediately of what I’d once shared with Master.

Engrossed, I wish myself closer, close enough to hear their whispered conversation.

It becomes obvious that the top is pushing his bottom’s comfort zone, asking him to publicly do something he isn’t willing to do. If the bottom acquiesces, it will deepen their relationship forever, proving his trust, his love, his loyalty; but if he refuses…

As the couple moves away, the enormity of my decision to seek out Master explodes in my mind.

He will think I’ve answered his summons.

Somewhere along the course of healing, I realized I’d left sanity behind, because when I slept, I dreamed, and my dreams are filled with the Master of my past, the man I immortalized in dreamscape, romanticizing, fantasizing, agonizing. Could the universe have any more sense of humor, sending me here under these circumstances? I guess it is apropos. He made me believe he was dead … and now, he will die for real.

A laser show interrupts my thoughts, and though I wouldn’t have believed it possible, the music cranks louder when the room is cast in darkness, a complete blackout broken only by a single pinpoint of light, drawing the attention of every person in the room to the stage. The single beam of light bends and breaks into three beams. Green, fuchsia, and blue divide again and again, until the room is a scramble of broken beams of lights dancing over every surface. In a flash of smoke accompanied by a loud bang, a man appears. In a blazing flash, he exhales fire and the crowd erupts. “Lord Fyre! Lord Fyre! Lord Fyre!”

Oh shit!

Strutting across the stage, he takes full advantage of all the angles, stopping, posing, and spraying fire from his mouth. Applause and catcalls follow his every move. He is adored. An announcer speaks above the music, explaining that the night’s show will be a wax demonstration. A total blackout leads up to the moment when a young woman appears on the stage. My knees go weak as he takes her by the hand and leads her in a semicircular march to show off her best attributes. She is like a young colt, all arms and legs, tall, but in her bare feet, small next to Lord Fyre, so very thin, each rib is shadowed.

Even with a half-acre of bodies separating us, I feel behemoth and ugly in her presence.

Making my way to the safety bar that circles the level I am on, I look down on them with awe. On tip-toe, she lifts herself, hands clasped, not tied behind her back, to kiss him on the mouth, in the very next motion, going down on her knees to kiss the top of his boots. It is a well-practiced performance. When he pulls her up, he lifts her into his arms and kisses her as if she is food, and he a man starved, dying if not fed by her lips.

Holding my breath, I wait for the world to upright itself again. Then, breathing is impossible … and I am hyperventilating. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be here. Oh God, I really, really shouldn’t be here!

Drawn to him, I find the staircase leading to the level he is on and descend, not able to take my eyes off him. He carries her to a table and lays her down on top of it.

Strategically placed cameras catch their image and project it onto the screen behind them.

The girl is nude. Her image, stretched two stories high, reveals her blemish-free perfection, but it is the man I see. He wears red leather chaps over faded black jeans. His upper body is bare, tan, his muscles glistening with oil to highlight their perfection. His tattooed biceps stand out in stark relief—red, orange and yellow flames circling his bronze arms. I like the flames, new since I was his.

God, you are so beautiful. I’d forgotten how beautiful.

The crowd gasps as he manipulates them as one, the show beginning.

Holding the candle high to make the performance more dramatic, liquid wax falls, hits skin, slides and hardens. I am as mesmerized as the crowd as I watch him build layer upon layer, covering her breasts, her pelvis and then as a grand finale, the cameras zoom to her face and we see his head come into view, kissing her gently on the lips, before tilting her head to the side. Allowing the wax to fall over her cheek, dribble over her high-gloss lips and freeze in a non-moving stream of bright red wax.

Taking a swig from a small bottle, he poses, readying the crowd, before becoming a human flame torch.

Applause rocks the warehouse, but the Lord of Fire isn’t quite done with his show and the crowd waits, expectant, transfixed … wanting more, needing more. He whispers something to the woman, softly so that the microphone doesn’t pick it up, disappointing the crowd, and I find that I too am disappointed, not hearing what he said to her because tears well in her eyes, becoming wall size, and as a group vested in our joint voyeurism, our breath catches. Thankfully, we do not have to wait long. Lord Fyre swabs her arm with a cotton ball and the crowd collectively holds its breath, for the moment suspended, we gasp simultaneously when he holds flame close enough to her arm to light the liquid left behind by the cotton ball. Quick flames run up her arm. She doesn’t move, remaining completely still and silent, causing Lord Fyre to grant her a smile.

It is a preciously rare smile and seeing it breaks my heart, because once it graced me.

As much as it kills me to stay and watch the conclusion, I can’t walk away from the sight of him. I need to know what his life has been like the last six years, I need to know what his life is like now. Discovering a small piece of that answer tears me between being pissed as hell and thankful that he was kept safe and alive. Blurring eyes distort the rest of the show; fire sliding over the back of her shoulders and down her arm, fire, fire, more and more fire. It is all I can do to ignore the chanting crowd, “Lord Fyre, Lord Fyre, Lord Fyre…”

Why am I still standing here?

Facing Henri’s wrath couldn’t be worse than facing this. Why am I doing this to myself?

The answer is too terrifying to give heed to, but I face it anyway. I want to be the woman onstage. I want to be the recipient of the grace of his smile. I want to see the love and pride he feels directed at me again. The only time in my life I have ever felt whole was when I was called His.

For a moment, I can forget the real reason I am here … for a moment, I allow myself to just watch. Too soon I will have to perform. A high-paid actress in this deadly profession we share. In that, he knows me and I know him. Never completely honest, are we? Not even with ourselves.

“So sad, and yet you are here.” His voice startles me with its closeness, his Mediterranean accent as heavy as it ever was. It slowly dawns on me that I am facing an empty stage, the crowd that previously surrounded me dispersed, returning to the dance floors and private alcoves. His lips press down on the back of my neck, seeming a very intimate thing. If he intended for the kiss to be erotic, he succeeds, sending waves of tingles all the way to my toes; but still, I cannot turn to face him.

“Thank you for coming, Eva. I’m glad you are finally here.”

I cannot face him; I don’t know what I’m doing here. As a tear falls onto my cheek, I bury my face in my hands, but nothing will stop the torrent of my tears now that they have begun. Wrapping his arms around me from behind, he holds me as I fall apart, holding me as I break down.

“Fix me,” I manage to ask, assuming a role, picking a role closest to what I should be feeling, ignoring what I am really feeling and dying a little more in the process. “Please, Luka, fix me.”

I open my eyes to a blackness so total it is like being in the depths of a fathomless cave. I have never known such a complete absence of light and, for a moment, I fear I have gone blind. Blinking, I find the red glow of a small LCD on the opposite side of the bed, revealing 4:20. I am not blind.

Is that day, or night?

He wraps his arms around me and pulls me into his bare chest, making two elements known. I am very naked with no recollection of becoming so, and for that matter, I do not remember coming to his bed, though I obviously slept. I do not know if it’s been hours or days, but I slept.

“Eva,” he whispers in his sleep. “Go to sleep.”

He doesn’t have to ask me twice, I snuggle closer.

Waking up the second time isn’t as easy. I don’t want to wake up. Now that I’m asleep, I want to sleep and sleep; however, he doesn’t see it that way. Fyre wants me awake and, from the man I remember, he always gets his way. Too bad! I’m not so easy to push around now.

“Sleeping here,” I growl sarcastically.

“We’ve been in bed twenty-four hours and as much as I love lying in your arms, Eva, Sweetheart, I need to eat.”

Sweetheart? He just called me sweetheart? I must be dreaming; endearments were never a part of Master’s vocabulary. I sit up, not believing I slept, let alone that I have slept twenty-four straight hours. I close my eyes, realizing also that I have been naked in his bed for as long and he hasn’t made a single attempt to seduce me. Hurt wells in my chest, unexpected, unwanted, leaving me feeling pain where my heart used to beat. I open my eyes to keep from crying; acknowledging that for a girl who didn’t cry for over a decade, I’m crying an awful lot these days. Some Ice Princess I make.

The lights are on, but it seems not quite so. I tilt my head because the room is too much to take straight in. Black walls, black ceiling, black floor, black furniture, black bedding … scary.

“This room is my temporary dwelling, I’m only borrowing it,” he explains. “It’s one of the playrooms here at the club.”

“How temporary?”

“I’ve been here for about a year now; although I must be honest, some nights I stay with friends.”

“You’ve lived like this for a year?” I exclaim, taking in the bleak view. No windows and I’m assuming it is only an optical illusion, but there appears to be no door. “Mm-hm,” I mumble under my breath, thinking, I thought I had issues.

“When used as a playroom, the darkness intensifies the contrast of bodies and action.” He presses a hidden lever by the bed, turning off the regular lights. A timed strobe fills the space with intermittent light. He moves in to kiss me and it appears that he is moving in slow motion. Sitting back, he reaches behind himself and retrieves a can of ginger ale from the floor beside the bed. Tipping his head back, he lifts the can high and pours a stream of clear cola into his mouth. The strobe causes choppy slow-motion breaks in the flow of golden liquid, making the everyday act an erotic art. Sitting back, still holding the can in his lap, he offers, “Imagine the possibilities.”

Spellbound, I nod. He offers me a sip from the can.

I take two long swallows as he readjusts the lights to normal. I’ve missed ginger ale.

How could I have forgotten the ginger ale? He watches me, lying back on the pillows. I sit the empty can on top of the bedside table before turning to look at him, mimicking how he is looking at me … and then I cannot not look at him … neither of us able to get enough of the other. No longer able to control myself, I run my hand down his washboard abs.

“You’ve lost weight.” I pinch skin and muscle. “You look really good—no pudge.”

“I have never had pudge.” He sniffs, feigning insult.

“You’ve never been four percent body fat either. I definitely remember holding on to a love handle. But nope, nothing to hold onto here.”

He pulls my hands to either side of his very solid hips. “You can hold on here.”

“Is that a command?” I tease.

“Not yet,” he answers in all seriousness, making the ache in my chest drop to the pit of my stomach.

Panic rises with a return of hyperventilation.

“Whoa. It’s okay. I don’t know what’s happening, or what you think I said, but it isn’t what you’re thinking.” He grabs my shoulders, making me look into his face. “It’s going to be okay. We are going to be okay together, Eva. I’m not turning you away now that I have you here. Do you hear me?”

I nod, trying to breathe, but I can’t breathe, not normally at least. I don’t understand

… I am role-playing right? But damned if I didn’t just feel denied … and I so want to be his—role-playing his, of course. I have to keep this separate in my brain.

“Breathe,” he commands. “Inhale.”

I fight to obey, air fighting to not go in my lungs.

“Exhale.”

I’m trying—really.

His kiss fills my mouth and I go limp and soft in his arms, forgetting altogether that I am supposed to be doing anything except kissing him. When he releases me, moments later, I am breathing normally.

“What in the hell was that?” he demands.

“I hyperventilated.”

“I know that, the question is why?”

“It’s hard to… When I was in Paris and—Liam…” A quick reel plays in my mind, from the wedding that almost was, to the torture that almost destroyed me, to Henri’s command for me to come here. “What we used to share. I don’t think I can do any of that again.”

“Sh-h, all you need to know is that you are safe with me.”

But are you safe with me? I want to scream but I only succeed in closing my eyes and allowing myself to be pulled into his rock-hard chest. A long hug, followed by a quick kiss on the top of my head. “It’s late. At least ten, I have to work. Sleep while you can, I’ll be back.”

He leaves without even attempting to top me, or even make love to me for that matter. I should be thankful, but I am strangely disappointed. I force myself into work mode and manage to get my thoughts to organize. First I have to find a phone, check in with Henri, and then … I open my eyes, not even wanting to plan the next step. Yes, eyes wide open. That’s what this moment requires. No dreams, no deliriums, not even the luxury of a fantasy that would lead to any hope of my life being any other than it is. I am no longer the innocent who fell in love with a Master, pretending we have forever.

An hour later I was still searching the small room for my things. No hiding places, just a bare room, I thought, but then I started finding the secret cubbies built into the walls, almost indistinguishable … unless you were looking, and even looking, impossible to spot, unless you were trained. Thus, finding my cell phone proved harder than making the phone call, but strangely, calling Henri didn’t prove hard at all.