The Darkest Corners (The Club Book 4) (9 page)

EIGHT

The aspirin wasn’t doing much. Liam kind of wished he could have had a wake-up beer, but he didn’t want to try the drive even a little buzzed. So, head pounding as loud as the knock on the door the night before, he was on his bike, heading through the blazing Texas sun to Austin. 

After the spectacular fight on Tuesday, he’d gone home and drunk himself stupid. He couldn’t see another solution. The woman had gotten into his head and then he fucked with hers. It had seemed like such a brilliant comeback to her trying to emasculate him…and all he did was end up feeling like a complete tool.

Wednesday had been one of the worst days of his life thus far. Throbbing hangover in full force, he managed to get half of one hallway wired when Tally had walked down the corridor he was working, cool as ice, and led a couple into the Fessée Privée. She didn’t even look at him, and the soft click of the door was louder than any shout.

She still hadn’t emerged by the time he finished his work two hours later. There was no mistaking the cries of pleasure that came from the room, though. And they ripped through him, tearing into his gut. If he thought he’d felt low already, he had no idea what was low until that first cry of orgasm—and he couldn’t tell if it was her.

Four beers in that evening, there was a thundering boom of a knock on the door. He was so shocked, he fell off the couch and had to scramble to the door as another one rang out. Liam swung the door open to get it away from thunder-fist.

Except thunder-fist was Jet Mak.

He swallowed hard at the sheer anger on the man’s face. “Mister Mak…”

“Can I come in.” There was no question, really, and Mak walked in, in response to his own statement. Doing his best to act at least a little sober, Liam closed the door.

“Like a beer?” He managed to bumble the words out.

“Looks like you’ve had enough for both of us, Liam.”

He shrugged, then motioned to the chair. “Have a seat.”

“I’m not here to socialize. Where the hell do you think you get off, treating Tally like that? She told me what you said. She told me what you did, leaving her there that night.”

Liam shrugged, picking up beer number five. “What do you want me to say? She accused me of being something I’m not—”

“Accused you?” Mak snapped. “She didn’t accuse you of anything. She pointed out that you have natural lifestyle tendencies. You left her there. And then you brought up the necklace when you don’t know anything about her.”

“I didn’t—”

Mak cut him off with a stinging look. “I have known Tally for five years. I invited her here to help me with this club when I saw how she was closing down after Simon’s death. I hadn’t seen her as happy and full of life as I saw her last week when you two were flirting. I thought that finally, finally here was someone who could bring her back to life. Who could bring back the gorgeous woman I met on Simon’s arm. And you threw your goddamn male pride in her face.”

“I didn’t know…”

“That’s obvious.”

“I tried to apologize.”

“Oh, you’ll need to beg.”

Liam swallowed hard again. “I don’t know if I can do that.”

Mak folded his arms, staring at him. “You know what a real man would do here? He would find out all he could about her, stuff his ego up his ass and do what it takes to really say he’s sorry.”

He sighed. “How am I supposed to do that? She won’t talk to me.”

“Then ask
me
.”

Liam snapped his head up. “What?”

“When I met her, five years ago at a BDSM conference, she and Simon were the perfect couple. She was carefree, and he was besotted. They had a love the likes of which very few people on this planet can even fathom. They were happy, sweet, and fabulously kinky in the bedroom. They’d already faced his reprimand from NYU for an inappropriate teacher-student relationship, and there seemed to be nothing they couldn’t face.

“We kept in touch, emails, texts, hell, I even went on vacation with them with friends. I admired everything they had while I waited for Lucy to come back to me. They worked with a domestic abuse network, helping women get out of situations they didn’t think they could escape.”

Mak paused for just a moment. “It was one of those escape runs when it happened. Simon had picked up the woman, and they were heading for a safe house. It was rainy and dark. The car next to them lost control and careened into them, spinning the whole thing into a cliff the highway had been cut through. Simon and the woman died on impact.

“Tally was inconsolable. This was her husband, her sir. This was the man she wanted her life with. I visited her about three months after the accident and she wasn’t healing. Everything in the city reminded her of what she had lost. I decided there and then to invite her to help me run The Club. It took another three months for her to decide, but ultimately she agreed.

“Tally and I have been close since she moved here. And knowing her, you were good for her before this bullshit went down. I want to see her happy. You want to know who she is inside? Not the cold hard facts I just gave you? This is a one time offer. Say no, and I’ll fire your ass right now and find someone else to do this job so she’s nowhere near you.”

Liam nodded. “Yes. I do want to know. Tell me who she is.”

Mak reached into his jacket and handed over a business card. “Go here. Tomorrow. I’ll cover your pay for the day. Find out who she is. Decide if you can be a real man and beg her forgiveness.” He turned and headed for the door. “If you can’t, I won’t let you go until you can make arrangements for a new job elsewhere.”

Mak closed the door and left Liam sitting on the couch staring at the business card.

Art on 5th

Now showing T.B. Fremanis

Austin, Texas

*  *  *

Liam left at the crack of dawn. The Internet had said it would take well over three hours to get there, and he wanted to be able to get home that night and figure everything out.

But the truth was, the long ride was too perfect for reflecting on how he had screwed the pooch on this one. He’d felt the chemistry between them from the very beginning. He didn’t really mind the tying up and the cock ring. Everything she’d done to him and for him was just what he needed. What they needed.

She enjoyed it. He’d enjoyed it. Why was his brain doing this to him?

There was nothing wrong with a woman in charge. Nothing. Hell, Dana had taken over most of the time. So had most of the other women he’d been with. He liked watching them on top of him. He liked watching them abandon themselves to pleasure. The face of a woman who was uninhibited was one of the most erotic things he could imagine.

Hell, he’d taught a few of them how to take charge.

So why did this bother him?

Tally was aggressive. She took no prisoners. She liked to be in charge, and that’s what he liked. What was the problem?

Natural submissive.

Was he? Because he was happy on the bottom? Well, he was, and since women had to work a little harder for their climax—and really, most times all a guy needed was nice pair of tits and some moisturizer—he liked helping. His pleasure was easily got.

He liked to think of it as more of common courtesy than
submission
.

But if Tally liked taking it from him a little unconventionally, and he liked it, why did he balk at the words? Was it really male pride? Could male pride also be found in giving himself over to her completely?

What was her definition of completely, though? He wasn’t interested in being leashed. He wasn’t interested in crawling around on all fours. That wasn’t pleasure to him. Of course, maybe if he hadn’t jumped out of the sack and basically ran like a coward, he could have found out what she meant.

The building on the card appeared on his right as he drove up the street. It was a fairly massive building and looked eclectic and welcoming. The little manual flip open/closed sign in the window hung crookedly, but declared proudly, “Open!”

He kicked the Harley back onto its stand after killing the engine. He strolled to the door, and the manual bell that hung over the door jingled pleasantly. It seemed everything in the place was going to be manual, quaint or just slightly outdated.

The man at the counter, however, was clearly up on his Texas fashion, and strolled around the corner of the desk, ready to shake hands. “Hello! Welcome!” Liam was momentarily shocked that the man didn’t use ‘howdy’ in his greeting, but gripped the hand that was offered. “Looks like you came a distance by the dust on your jacket. Can I offer you a drink?”

“I’d appreciate that, thanks. Water?”

“Can do,” the man said. “Now, how can I help you?”

“I’m here to see T. B. Fremanis’ work,” Liam said, trying to just look casually around the room.

“Ah, Mrs. Fremanis, yes.” The man held out the water. “Yes. Ridiculous talent in that one. Let me grab the key and I’ll take you to the gallery. Beau Hartman, by the way. Pleasure.”

He grabbed the water bottle. “Liam Dunfrees.”

They were at the door to the gallery a moment later, and the key disappeared into Hartman’s pocket. “Now, this whole space used to be Mrs. Fremanis’, but as she’s had some artist blocks of late, I’ve convinced her to share the space and the burden of cost with Mister Jake John Oer. Mr. Oer is also insanely talented if you’re interested. His style, I have to warn you, is vastly differently from Fremanis.”

The studio was filled with black and white angular paintings, with a shock of color ripped through them. They were abstract and followed a modern line of thought. They were distracting, and Liam shook his head as politely as possible. “Just Mrs. Fremanis, please.”

Hartman pointed to a walkway at the side of the walls of distracting black and white, and Liam headed over. “There is a catalog of course,” Hartman explained, “and while I can’t guarantee that Mrs. Fremanis will be up to it, I’m sure we could talk her into giving a commission a try.”

“Won’t be up to it?”

Hartman nodded. “She’s had some difficulty painting lately. Like any true artist, inspiration is fickle. Simon did wonders for her soul. She had another amazing burst when she took vacation in Utah a year and half ago. But since then…she’s struggled.”

The door jingled at the front of the gallery, and Hartman paused. “If you don’t mind, I’ll leave you to it for a minute. I’ll see who that is and be with you shortly.”

“Take your time,” Liam answered and walked to the back gallery as his guide shuffled quickly to the front.

Liam’s heart stopped in his chest, and his feet froze to the floor when the gallery with all of Tally’s paintings appeared before him. With his mouth agape, he slowly walked into the sun drenched room.

Riotous colors surrounded him. The canvases were anything from small—barely a foot—to standing nearly three yards in the air. Hard and soft angles edged against each other, but nothing crowded anything out. There were bright white and yellows of dawn, the golds, ambers and purples of sunset. There was a shocking blue of a perfect September afternoon.

On the wall he was passing, the buildings of Manhattan were drawn out in happy shadow, against the sky or the water, the sun glinting and glistening on windows and waves. There were the odd greens of Bryant Park, Central Park against the skyscrapers. The stalwart walls of the Battery stood proud in front of Lady Liberty in the Harbor. The bridges of the East River were all portrayed with dignity and pride, dappled or shocked by the sun.

The city in all its seasons, cool winter and its sanitizing white, bright spring with fresh buds, deep summer with the greens that were nearly black, and the parade of colors that was fall in New York City.

There were pictures of lighthouses, on the New England coast, brick sentinels, black and white guardians, red defenders, all peering out over the deep blue-green of the North Atlantic.

Then came the oddly softened sharp colors of the canyons. Bryce, Zion, Grand, Canyonlands. Their reds and yellows and beiges all neatly stacked and sandwiched between the rocks at the bottom and the expanse of a pale blue sky. Cactus, water, rock, even animals were all there, standing boldly. 

The strokes of the paint were strong, sure. And although the images were very nearly abstract—clearly what she was going for the echo of van Gogh, Renoir, Merisot, even a touch of Cezanne and Gaugin—there was, as the masters had also done, no doubt what each picture was, what it represented. Not only in the physical sense, but in the emotional sense.

Liam was overwhelmed.

He walked through the colors and light, mouth open, mind blank.
This
was Tally. This was what she was. Bright, beautiful, reflective, abstract and yet distinct. The aloof, angry closed woman who sat in her office, at that very moment, was not who she was. It was not who she was meant to be. Here, these images, thoughts, painted feelings, were what she was meant for.

He’d wounded something that needed healing.

Glancing once again over the art, he was drawn to the far corner, where a series of portraits were hung. In the middle of the arrangement was a triptych that looked exactly like it had been pulled from the depth of the middle ages. It didn’t match anything else in the gallery.