Rebecca's Forgotten Journals + Bonuses and Extras Collection Page 2

  He’d crossed the bakery, and ignored the pastries and sweets, making a beeline my direction, stopping at my table to stand above me, his attention landing first on the books I’d been studying and then at me. That man’s good looks and intensity had overwhelmed me. Intensely consumed me. We’d known each other before that encounter, but when he’d sat down across from me, there had been this shift in the air, a shift between us. “There’s a place I know that I’d like you to know,” he’d said.

  “What place?” I’d ask, and believe you me, my heart had been thundering in my ears.

  “Say yes, and I’ll take you there, and show you.”

  I remember knowing in the moments that followed, that if I did, everything would change for me. I don’t know how or why. But I knew. I think that is why seconds ticked by without my reply but I remember that he sat there patiently, waiting, almost in need of my approval. He wouldn’t pressure me. He didn’t pressure me. And that’s the thing. He never did. Every choice I made was mine. Every choice was absolutely mine. He said that was my control. He said I was always in control.

  Needless to say, I said, “Yes.”

  He always insisted that I say “yes.” He always insisted that I make the choices. That’s part of why I was able to be submissive. But there was more. He promised me, that for those windows of time I was with him, none of the hell that was my life at that point in time, would exist. And that’s what became addictive. I could go to him and for the time I was with him, there was room for nothing but him. No fear. No loss. No worry. Just him.

  And yes, sometimes driving everything else away came my way of him pushing my limits, most of the time it did. But it worked. He worked for me. I trusted him. Would I have been able to be submissive with someone else? No. I do not believe it could have been someone else.

  Just him.

  But that relationship was not a whole relationship. We were not whole. And so the question remains, can he be the whole package, my dream man, or is he only capable of being my Master?

  ***

  Monday, eight pm

  I’d barely gotten to work today when our receptionist, Amanda, appears in my doorway, looking as excited as a school girl and holding a box with a red ribbon. She sets it on my desk and then stands there. “Who’s it from?”

  “I don’t know,” I’d told her.

  “Open it and see.”

  “Later,” I’d said, setting it aside, though it was killing me. I wanted to know what was inside. What I didn’t want was for anyone else to know. I’m private that way. And so is he.

  “What exactly are we doing?”

  At the sound of the boss, or Bossman, as we call him, Amanda jolted and turned around, and while I couldn’t see her face or his, I could hear the exchange.

  “I was just passing a delivery on to Rebecca.”

  Bossman says nothing, which means he’s giving her one of those steeling gray-eyed stares of his that intimidate even the most confident a person, which Amanda is not. She’s too young and sweet, as well as without experience, for the likes of that man.

  “I’ll just go watch the front desk.”

  “See that you do,” he says.

  She scrambles away and he appears in my doorway, and what can I say. He’s tall. He’s blonde. His gray eyes striking, hard. And he wears a custom suit better than any man who’s ever graced the pages of GQ. The problem is that he knows it. He owns it. And he owns everyone around him. He’s wanted to own me from the moment I came to work for the Gallery. A part of me wanted him too, as well. But after my recent submissive experience, I’ve learned that being owned, isn’t right for me. Oddly though I can say that the more I was owned outside my work, the harder “Bossman” Mark Compton found it to intimidate me as he does everyone else in the office.

  And he knows that, too. I thought this would displease him, but another oddity. It doesn’t. He seems to in fact, be pleased by this new side of me. If that is even possible. Maybe I’m wrong. Whatever the case, Bossman stood there in my doorway, staring at me. Never once did he look at the package. Never once did he speak. He just stared at me and I stared at him, and tried, like I always try, to read his thoughts. To feel what he was feeling, but that isn’t something that happens, unless he allows it to happen. And I suspect, that in his workplace, that would never, ever happen. But still I try. Still I want to peel away some layer of this powerful man’s shell, to see inside his mind.

  “What are we doing Ms. Mason?”

  “Amanda brought me a package that I intend to open alone and at an appropriate time.”

  “As it should be,” he approves, and with that, he’d disappeared back into the hallway.

  I’d wanted that private moment to be then, right after he’d left, but when I’d stood to shut my door, to open the package, I’d changed my mind. I’d waited until I arrived home. And now it’s sitting here, beside me and I can’t seem to open it. For some reason, I just…can’t. I haven’t even written about what happened last night. But I know that this package is about just that. What happened. What I didn’t think could happen. What he didn’t think could happen and yet, it did.

  And it changed us. I’m not sure he can handle that. Maybe I can’t either. Maybe we don’t know how to be anything but what we once were and that I can’t be that anymore. Maybe I’ve already lost him and he’s lost me. That scares me. Outright terrifies me. So the package. I think I’ll wait to open it.

  Chapter Four

  June 2011

  Monday eleven pm

  The gift he gave me is still sitting on the kitchen table unopened while I’m alone in my bed, writing this. I suppose most people would be going crazy, wanting to know what is inside the package. I suppose too that I’m really not different than most people. I do want to know what’s inside it. I simply dread what it might be more. Besides, I’ve never been big on gifts, but then, I’ve never had anyone to give me gifts, at least, not before him. My mother wanted to give me gifts. She wanted a lot of things that she never found, and I think her cigarettes became her drug of choice and as we all know, drugs kill, and her drug killed her. But they were the one joy she had in life. He’s my drug.

  The problem though is that the first gift he ever gave me was a beautiful ring with a stunning rose on top of it. A ring I was to put on only if I signed the agreement to be his submissive. A ring I wore for two months and gave back to him when that role no longer suited me. Every gift he gave me since then was during that submissive period, and tied directly to something we’d shared when I was in that role. But I wasn’t his submissive Friday night. And he wasn’t the master he’d once been to me. Oh don’t get me wrong. He was sin, sex, and powerful, as I always expect from him, but the man beneath the master, I’d seen glimpses of in the past was there with me. And as I wrote before, I’d sworn not to have sex with him, but that didn’t work out.

  Really though, considering how it happened. I don’t regret it. I regret nothing about that night. I’d opened the door and I’d been overwhelmed by not just the force of his presence but the way he’d looked at me, emotion he doesn’t allow anyone to see in his eyes. “Torment” is the word that had come to my mind. Wordless, I’d stepped into the hallway outside my apartment and before I could shut the door, he’d done the unthinkable. After he’d breathed out my name, he’d pulled me to him and kissed me, deeply, passionately, intensely. This is not a man who does such a thing. He builds tension. He makes you crave him and the kiss that might not ever come, even if his mouth finds it’s way to intimate parts of your body, which most assuredly it always did mine. But no. That night he just kissed me. And then there was this explosion of uncontrolled passion between us, that he has never allowed.

  One minute we were in the hallway, and the next we are ripping off each others clothes – yes, he let me help him undress, which he never allows. He lets me touch him. And then we’re on my couch. I’m on top of him, and we are just crazy wild making love. Or having sex. I do
n’t know what it was. It was nothing I’d ever experienced in my life. I just know that there was this moment, where he twined fingers in my hair, and said, “I missed you,” that stole every breath I’ve ever owned. I know that sounds small, but it is not with him. Wild, crazy sex, and admissions of missing someone, missing me, does not fit the master I know. Nor does the desperation I’d tasted in his kisses.

  And when it was over, he’d held me for long minutes, like he didn’t want to let me go, until finally he’d rolled me to my back and declared, “Don’t move,” and he walked to my bathroom and returning with a towel before, in all his naked glory, and let me tell you, that man naked is all about glory, he brings me my clothes. “I owe you dinner,” he said. “If you still want to go?”

  “Of course I want to go,” I’d replied.

  Approval had lit his eyes and I cannot explain how that look affects me, and even arouses me. I shouldn’t need a man’s approval, of course, but it’s really not about that. In that moment, I’d remembered how intensely erotic, and addictive being owned by this man can be. I’d almost changed my mind about dinner out of fear that this was headed right back where we’d once been: master and submissive. And I’d feared I couldn’t say no.

  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 7 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.

  Chapter Five

  Wednesday 12pm

  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.

  I considered that answer with caution. He’s a man who doesn’t lik
e any game he doesn’t create, though he certainly excels, at those. And he wouldn’t be asking me this question, staring at me right now, and waiting for a reply, if he didn’t suspect trouble. In a matter of seconds, I decided that that If I were to tell him what Mary had done, he’d fire her.

  “We’re co-workers,” I’d said.

  “You mean competitors.”

  “Because you pitted us against each other,” I’d reminded him. “She wanted to work with Riptide.”

  He’d stared at me with those hard gray eyes, several intense beats before he’d said, “Yes. She did. But I don’t trust her.”

  “And you do me?” I’d asked, taking the bait he’d lead me to, and waiting for what I was certain would be an answer I did not expect.

  “You get trust when you give it,” was his reply, and he’d watched me, expectation in the air again.

  He’d wanted me to say that I trust him and I was, am, stunned by the fact that I don’t want to give him the power that would offer him. I realize now that I don’t want to play his games. I don’t want to play games at all. I’m changing personally and professionally.

  My silence had told him this. I’d seen it in the darkening of his gaze, the hard set of his jaw. Something had flickered in his eyes. I didn’t like that. His lips had twitched, and I’d known in that instant I’d displeased him when I’d spent a year trying to please him. Too often, I did not.

  He’d turned and left without a word. He does this often. It’s his way of making you wonder what he is thinking. And as you do, he has control, but remarkably, I find, it also makes me self reflect to the point, I know me better. Maybe that is why I work well with that man. His games, even when I do not, want to play them, make me grow. And this time was no different. I sat there after his departure, my fingers on the ring where it hangs at my neck, and I’d asked myself why I couldn’t give him my offer of trust. This is work. This is my career. And then, I’d realized many things, but one quite large thing I think. When I’d come to the gallery, to Mark Compton, I’d been an innocent girl, eager to earn this job. I’d come to him a young girl who had an open heart and I had trusted easily. I’m not that girl anymore, if I were the ring would be back on my finger.