The Girlfriend (The Boss) (22 page)

“No,” I admitted on a shaky breath. “I’m unemployed, I’ve moved in with my boyfriend of two months, and he might not live the rest of the year. I’m terrified.”

“I don’t understand how you’re not visibly and audibly freaking out.” Holli shook her head. “I’ve never been as serious about someone as I am about Deja, and I know you feel the same way about Neil. I can’t imagine losing her, now that I’ve finally found someone I could consider spending the rest of my life with.”

“I’m just not thinking about it. We have no idea what’s going to happen from here on out, so I’m not going to dwell on how sad I might be eventually.” Total lie. I dwelled on it constantly. I could make a career out of dwelling.

“I kind of thought he might come with you today.” She scrunched up her lips. “Does he not like me?”

“No, I’m sure he thinks you’re lovely.” I giggled. “Actually, he thinks you’re pretty hot.”

“I am pretty hot,” she agreed.

“He didn’t want to horn in on our time together, I thought that was sweet.”

“Yeah, it is,” Holli agreed.
 

The waiter brought our coffee, and we talked until we had to order another, and then another. Holli was having an awesome time in Paris, even if she was missing Deja like crazy. Between fittings and rehearsals for fashion week, she was attending parties with important designers and international publications. Her agent had gotten her a commercial for a brand of Russian vodka, which she happily showed me on her phone.

“That’s crazy,” I said, watching the picture slowly panning over Holli’s bikini-clad body. “You’re on television in Russia and everything?”

“I will be. It’s totally nuts. I mean, magazines are one thing... and I did that BBC documentary— oh my gosh, when you go home, you can probably watch it!”

“Definitely!” I had a momentary thrill at the thought of seeing my best friend on TV. “Things are happening for you.”

“They are.” She considered a moment. “Everything is changing, isn’t it?”

I hated to admit, but it was. I could feel it. It was more comfortable to deny it. “Nah. This time next year, we’ll both be back in New York, sniping at each other over who left what dish in the sink.

She laughed with me, but then she said, quieter, “No, we won’t.”

I nodded, my heart sinking in my chest. “I know.”

Holli’s phone alarm went off, and she groaned. I wanted to groan, too, but I knew she was super busy and we’d already been visiting with each other for three hours.

“Already?” She made a disgusted noise. “Things are happening for me, all right. I never have any fucking time to do what I want to do. Which is just sit here and talk to you forever.”

“Hey, you have Skype, bitch,” I reminded her with a laugh, parroting her earlier statement.

“And it’ll be easier when I’m back in the States. I mean, the time change will suck—”
 

“But we’ll totally still talk to each other,” I vowed.

“Totally.” She even held out her pinkie finger to do the pinkie swear with me.

When we parted with tearful hugs, I headed to the underground station. She was right. Everything was changing. If Neil survived the chemo and the transplant went well, I wouldn’t just go back to New York without him, would I? Would we still be living together?

What would happen to my apartment? Would Deja move in there? Would Holli move out? Would two new girls, fresh out of college and excited to live in the big city, inherit the spaces we’d inhabited and form a friendship like ours?

Would it hurt them just as much when life separated them?

* * * *

After dinner, which had been prepared by a private chef and served to us in the dining room of our suite, Neil said, “I think we’ll go out tonight.”

I sipped from my water glass. I knew that the lack of wine was a sign to me that he had something planned. Neil didn’t like to play when I was intoxicated.

“Oh?” I feigned disinterest, but I wondered if we were going where I expected.

“Are you still interested in visiting my club?” He was trying to pose the question casually, but I knew he was dying to take me there. After our initial conversation on Christmas, we’d discussed it a few times. I had definitely warmed to the idea even further; curiosity and the forbidden drove my libido like nothing else.

“Sure. But I don’t know what I should wear.” I looked down at the same outfit I had worn earlier. I wasn’t sure the look that Neil had described as “innocent virgin” would fit in at a BDSM dungeon.

“Don’t be furious with me,” he began warily. “I bought you something today.”

He stood and I pushed my chair back, dropping my napkin on my plate while I gave him a little bit of side eye. Though I’d given him free reign to spend money on me, I could never be sure exactly what he would dream up.
 

He pulled me with him toward the bedroom, saying, “I hope you like it. I know I’ll like seeing you in it.”

The dress was laid out over the bed. It was a short, black number in layers of sheer chiffon, more nightie than dress. Delicate, glittering beading along the hem of the top-most layers gave it the appearance of an upside-down flower dripping with dew, and the top of the dress was similarly ornamented, with a plunging v that arched gracefully into two thin straps.

“Oh wow. I would be afraid to put this on,” I said in a reverent hush. “It looks so fragile, it could just tear right off.”

“I can help with that,” he growled against my neck, his arms encircling my waist from behind. “You get changed, let’s be ready to leave in an hour. Is that enough time?”

“More than enough,” I promised, though I knew I would be rushing to do my hair and put on darker makeup. I wanted to look knock-out hot on his arm tonight.

After an hour and fifteen— not too far off the mark— I stepped into the suite’s living room. Neil was distractedly flipping through channels on the television. When he stood up, my throat went dry. His black suit was exquisitely tailored, emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders and back. Beneath the single-button jacket, he wore a white shirt with an open collar, no tie. His trousers were crisply pressed and broke over the tips of his black, square-toed shoes. His hair was carelessly mussed, and all I could think was how much I wanted to touch it, to ruffle it a bit more, possibly against a pillow while I was riding him.

“You look amazing,” he said, his voice low and deep. “I knew you would.”

The dress stayed surprisingly close to my body, considering how floaty chiffon is. The beading at the bottom helped hold it down, and the petals of the skirt moved, revealing a flash of my pale thigh as I walked.

“Okay, maybe you can pick out clothes for me all the time,” I said with a weary sigh. “You do have good taste.”

“I own two fashion magazines,” he reminded me.

“Oh, then I bow to your superior knowledge.” I rolled my eyes. “I only have a degree in fashion journalism.”

After crossing the room toward me, Neil reached out, sliding his hands over my shoulders and down my arms. “In my professional opinion, you should always wear the least amount of clothing possible.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” I leaned up for a kiss, then he helped me with my coat and donned his.

The Rolls-Royce Phantom was waiting at the curb in front of the hotel, and he opened the door for me. “When in Rome,” he explained.

“At this point in the trip, I feel like Cinderella, so I don’t mind if you play the footman,” I quipped, getting into the car carefully to avoid over-exposure. “As long as you don’t turn into a mouse later.”

“Oh, the very last thing you can expect from me tonight is to be timid.” He closed the door behind him, gave the address to the driver, and leaned back in his seat. “But I need to know, is there anything that’s entirely off the menu?”

“Nothing public,” I answered automatically. I could see myself being into a lot of different stuff, sexually, but exhibitionism was off the list. “I can still safeword, right?”

“Absolutely.” His hand on my knee slid back to my thigh, under my skirt, and squeezed.

The club was located in the basement of a historic building near the site of the Bastille, a nice touch for a dungeon, in my opinion. We entered the sumptuous foyer by sliding a blank red card through a reader outside the door. Neil had given the same card to the driver to swipe at the gated courtyard entrance.

“This is some seriously
Eyes Wide Shut
shit,” I whispered giddily, looking around at the red brocade walls. To one side of the stylishly decorated room, with its red and black furnishings and white marble floor, were two black-framed glass doors with a wrought-iron black gate closed over them. On the other side was an elevator with another card reader.

“The owner of the club also owns the building. I believe the apartments upstairs are used to house foreign diplomats,” Neil said, sliding his card and hitting the elevator button.

“He lives dangerously, then, huh? If an American politician owned a secret sex dungeon, it would be found out before the ink dried on the check he bought it with.” I stayed close to Neil’s side as we stepped into the elevator and the doors closed behind us.

He put an arm around my waist and drew me close. “There’s nothing to be nervous about. We’re here to relax, have some fun and get turned on. If more happens, then more happens. But don’t feel you need to fulfill any expectations on my part.”

The elevator doors opened, and we stepped into another foyer, decorated similarly to the upstairs, but with lower lighting and a reception desk and coat check. Neil helped me with my coat and checked it with his; the coat check guy scoped me out, discretely, and I smirked to myself. I knew I looked awesome.

At the reception desk, a beautiful, dark-skinned woman with shorn hair and metallic black eye shadow greeted us with professional warmth. She said something to Neil, and he pulled out the red card again. She passed it over a scanner. As the computer screen faced away from us, I assumed they swiped the card for identification. Confirming my guess, Neil said, “Leif Arden,
avec un invité
.”

Leif, huh?
I forced myself to take deep, slow breaths. I was so nervous, my knees shook. I had no idea what he planned to do here tonight. Our conversation in the car had caused my imagination to run wild. Nothing was off the table? What had I been thinking? Neil was pretty creative on his own; in an environment where he was allowed to run wild, he might be more than I could handle.

I kind of hoped I was right.

The woman asked Neil something. He looked to me. “She’s going to tell you the rules. I’ll translate for you.”

I smiled to let her know I understood. “
Oui
.”

Neil told me the rules of the club, listening patiently as the woman recited them from memory. No touching anyone without his or her enthusiastic consent. The safe word was, quite literally, “safe” in french, but the woman assured me that the dungeon staff would recognize it in English, as well.

“And no blood or fluids play except in the designated wet areas,” he finished, and when I paled, he hurriedly added, “That’s not my kink, and I know it’s not yours.”

“You’ll be with me the whole time, right?” I asked him uncertainly.

“I will not leave your side,” he promised. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. Do you want to use your real name inside?”

“Do you,
Leif
?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

He smirked down at me. “Don’t be saucy,
Chloe
.”

“At least it’s not some Icelandic monstrosity.” That one earned me a swat on the butt.

The woman hit the buzzer on the door. Neil guided me toward it with his hand at the small of my back.

I think I’ve seen too many movies or something, because the club didn’t look anything like what I’d expected. I’d thought there would be loud industrial music and strobe lights, like a nightclub party. It was actually quite well lit, a diffuse golden glow that felt more like a classy restaurant than a stereotypical sex club. There was a bar, all in black with a huge mirror behind it, and two handsome men in black shirts, ties, and aprons working to serve the patrons relaxing on the padded, high-backed stools.

All of the people inside were well-dressed, and of varying ages. We passed a seating area where several young men with dark hair and olive skin sat talking in a language I didn’t understand. They seemed entirely oblivious to the fact that in the center of the main room, a slender man was tied to a huge St. Andrew’s cross as a woman in black PVC smacked a bamboo cane on his thighs.

“Canes, huh?” I said to Neil in a low voice. “You’re never doing that to me.”

“I wouldn’t want to,” he said, guiding me across the floor. “I’m not experienced with them. She’s a professional, though,” he said, with something akin to vocational appreciation as he watched her. “Notice how she moves her strikes around; she’s never overdoing it in one place.”

The man shouted as another blow landed, and his heavy breathing hissed through his teeth.

“There’s a fine line between skirting the edge and going entirely over it,” Neil observed.

“And she looks way good doing it,” I said, noting that even though not an inch of her body was bare under the high-collared PVC suit and thigh-high boots, her figure was rockin’. Her stick-straight black hair was scraped back into the tightest ponytail I’d ever seen, and her lips were glossy, fire engine red. If I hadn’t already known she was a professional dominatrix, I would have guessed just because she looked the part.

“That she does,” Neil agreed, seemingly transfixed by the sight of her. Then he turned to me and smiled. “We could talk to her when she’s finished, see if she would be interested.”

I shook my head. “I’m not into girls. But let’s keep our options open.”

“Leif,” a man at the bar called out, and Neil’s expression turned to one of friendly warmth. I had to remember to give him shit about the name later— Leif had been the fake name he’d given me when we’d first met six years ago.

“I have to say hello, do you mind?” he asked apologetically. “I hate to do this to you. Five minutes, I promise.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s not there isn’t anything interesting for me to watch.” I walked with him toward the bar, his arm possessive around my waist as we approached a tall, slender man with thinning black hair. He was dressed more casually than Neil was, in a brown turtleneck with leather patches at the elbows and what looked like Dacron trousers. Beside him, a thin, angular woman with golden hair and mannequin pale skin lounged, looking bored. Her lips glistened with pale gloss, and she toyed absently with a lock of her hair. Her printed wrap dress completed the startling illusion that they had just wandered in from the early 1980’s. They were both insanely cool looking.