Comfort Object (5 page)

“The correct answer is 'yes, Mistress,'” she snapped with restrained fury. “I know you did, because the client called and told me you sold yourself to him last night for two thousand dollars, and went on to detail everything you put out for that sum.”

I sat up in shock, which was stupid because it gave me away, but I was dumbfounded. That was his kink? Having what wasn't allowed and then ruining that person's life?

“For the last time, you little slut, did you meet a client last night at your apartment?”

“Yes, Mistress,” I said, bowing again to the floor, not that it would save me now.

She was quiet a long time. Finally she sighed heavily. “You make a good living here; you have a faithful clientele; you have been mentored and taught and trained by the best masters and mistresses in LA. All we ask in return is that you follow the rules and not fraternize with paying clients outside the club.”

“Yes, Mistress,” I said.

“I'm afraid this is grounds for dismissal. You not only fraternized with a client of the club, you sold yourself to him like a common whore.”

“I'm sorry, Mistress,” I said to the carpet. My nose was starting to itch.

She paused. “How sorry are you?”

Stupid, horny bitch. Ugly, puffed-up, over-the-hill dominatrix. It was easy for her to judge. I didn't make as much money in a year as she made in a week owning this club. She'd always wanted me, and now she thought she was going to get me by threatening to take away my job. Ugh. There was no way I was going to submit to that spiteful, nasty Domme.

“How sorry are you?” she repeated, walking to stand over me. “Are you willing to submit to punishment from me in exchange for keeping your job?”

“What kind of punishment?” I asked her fat, leather-encased ankles. I left the
Mistress
off.

“The cane, you impossibly impertinent slut. To begin with.” She landed a stroke of the cane across my ass. I screamed in outrage and sat up.

“The cane is on my 'no' list, Mistress Amelia!” Jesus, I didn't do canes. My ass was on fire from the one stroke she'd landed. No way was I submitting to a caning from her. It would probably kill me.

“Do you want your job or not?”

“The cane is on my 'no' list!”

“Letting a customer fuck your mouth, ass, and cunt for money is on my 'no' list, slut, and you did it anyway!”

“I… It was a weak moment, Mistress. You saw him. I swear, I won't do it again.”

“Do excuses like that work with your other Doms?”

You're not my Domme
, I wanted to remind her.
You're just my boss.

She tapped the cane against the wall impatiently. “So let me get this straight. You can play the submissive whore with this client, but you're too good to submit to punishment from me. I see how it is, you uppity slut. I always knew you weren't a true submissive. Nobody owns you. You're too good to be owned, I guess, and since I don't own you, I can't punish you as I see fit. But I can fire you. And I do. Get out of my sight. Leave Eden now.”

I stood up slowly, in tears. Cast out of Eden. It hurt. I had no intention of being caned and put through the sexual wringer to save my job, but it hurt to be told to go. It hurt to be told I wasn't a true submissive, because I was afraid, deep down inside, that she was right.

“But my clients…”

“Your clients will live without your services. I can no longer in good faith offer you to them, now that I see you are in actuality a slut and whore and not even, truly, a submissive. Out.”

And so I was out, just like that. I cried a little on the way home from my injured pride, but at the same time I thought, So what? There were plenty of BDSM clubs in Los Angeles, and they all had room for an experienced sub like me.

But I was wrong, because by the time I scraped my self-esteem together and started making phone calls, Mistress Amelia had called every BDSM club, dungeon, and bar in the greater LA area and had me blacklisted.

And so, a couple of weeks later, here I was working at the Buona Italia Bistro. Little Nell, professional sub extraordinaire, folding napkins during the nighttime lull. Corners together. Fold over. Again. Pull down the petals.

Like a tulip, like a tulip, Nellie.

Grr. My name wasn't Nellie, and I was only working this job out of desperation. This tiny Italian bistro had hired me on the spot, which had seemed like a stroke of serendipity at the time. Now I thought if I had to fold one more napkin into a tulip, I would take my boss, Guillermo, by the neck and shake him like the little chicken man that he was.

Squawk squawk squawk squawk.
Nellie, fold the napkins. Nellie, clean up behind the bar. Nellie, seat Mr. and Mrs. Iovito at their favorite table
. Mr. and Mrs. Iovito made me want to stick nails in my eyes.

But a job was a job, and waitressing jobs weren't easy to come by in Los Angeles, where you couldn't throw a stick without hitting a starving artist. And I wasn't the type to embrace starvation, so… Corners together. Fold over. Again.

Anyway, I'd done this to myself, just like I did everything to myself to somehow make my life as difficult and complicated as possible at all times. And I guess it was better than taking orders from Mistress Amelia. Oh, I knew I could go back at any time and grovel. I could submit to the cane until I was practically crippled, then bury my face in her crotch for the rest of my natural-born life. Sure, I could do that, and I probably would when I got desperate enough.

But more than Mistress Amelia, I thought about
him
. Gorgeous rat fink.

Why had he done it?

Had screwing me over been his aim all along? To get me fired? I had no more or fewer enemies than anyone else. Certainly no enemies of the life-destroying kind. I couldn't figure it out. I thought about it while I took orders, while I folded tulips, while I vacuumed the carpet at the end of the night.

Guillermo and his family were good people. By giving me a job, they'd helped me keep a roof over my head. But my rent was paid for by a sex worker's salary. A waitress's salary was not enough. The restaurant was upscale, but the weeknights were slow. And I'd lied. I told them I was part Italian, although my bright red hair would convince anyone otherwise. I was just a failure and a liar and, well, a prostitute, I guess.

“Smile, you tired old girl,” Guillermo chided from behind the bar. “This frown on your face, it drives the customers away.”

“Does it?” I shrugged. “It's almost closing time anyway.”

We both turned as the bell on the door rang.
Shit
. It was eight forty-five. Guillermo seated the lone customer at a small table in the corner. Of course he'd come in to eat. He couldn't just grab a quick drink at the bar and go home. Now I'd be here until ten o'clock waiting on him. Guillermo looked at me apologetically.

“Do you mind, Nellie?”

“Nell,” I muttered under my breath, crossing to the customer with a menu. He looked up with a tired smile.

“Is it too late? Is the kitchen closed?”

“No,” I said, unable to keep the edge of irritation from my voice. But he looked tired and hungry. And familiar.

I handed him the menu, softening. “What can I get you to drink?”

He looked up at me again. “A beer. Whatever's on tap.”

I suddenly realized why he looked so familiar. He was an actor, an A-list actor. I think he'd been up for an Oscar last year.

“Sure!” I hoped my
sure
didn't sound too obsequious. A real movie star! I started back to Guillermo with a goofy, excited smile.

“Jeremy Gray would like whatever's on tap, boss. Make it snappy.”

“Jeremy Gray!” Guillermo practically simpered. “In my own little restaurant here. You tell him this is all on the house. All of it. Maybe he'll let us take a picture!”

I looked over at Buona Italia's “Wall of Celebrities,” which consisted of a “Like a Virgin”-era Madonna hugging Guillermo's wife.

“Maybe. Got your camera?”

Guillermo bustled away in a panic.

I went back to Jeremy Gray's table to find him still scanning the menu.

“Is the chicken parmigiana good?”

“No one makes chicken parm like Guillermo.”

“Bring it on.” He smiled. “Nell,” he read off my name tag. “Unusual name. Unusual hair color. Is that natural red?”

“Yes. My parents' fault. I'll go put in your order. What kind of dressing would you like on your salad?”

“Surprise me,” he said.

“How about Italian, since you're at an Italian restaurant?”

He pretended disappointment. “That's not much of a surprise. Can't you do better?”

My God, Jeremy Gray was flirting with me. It almost made getting fired from Eden all worthwhile. Jeremy of the sandy blond hair, the cerulean blue eyes, the ridiculously hard body. He was pushing forty, but it only made him sexier and worldlier and hotter in a naughty-daddy kind of way. Up close and personal, he was even hotter than he was on-screen. He had those sexy older-man lines around his eyes.

“Raspberry-walnut vinaigrette?” I suggested.

“Better.” Sexy, fortyish, sugar-daddy hot man. I wanted him to spank me like the bad, bad girl I was. But this wasn't Eden, this was Buona Italia, so I went to the kitchen to put in his order instead.

“Make it good,” I said to Guillermo. “Then all the big movie stars will come to your restaurant.”

“From your lips to God's ears,” he exclaimed. “Let it be so!”

Later, when Jeremy Gray had finished his parm and insisted on paying for his meal, he agreed to pose for a photograph. Since Maria Rose, Guillermo's wife, had already gone home, Jeremy suggested I be in the picture with him. He put his arm around me and Guillermo crowed, “Say cheese!”