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Yet… Ira…

Tears stream down my face. I don’t know why I’m crying. I don’t know why I’m looking at Ira’s name on my phone, wishing I dared to apologize for standing her up. I wish I dared to explain why I’m so scared.

Perhaps I don’t have the courage because I don’t trust myself around her. The moment she puts her hands on me, I’ll want to do whatever she says, even if it goes against everything I usually want from my life.

All of this is teaching me that I’m not as strong as I’ve always thought. I feel powerless. Even without the stupid bet, I…

I’m coming undone. I need to leave.

Chapter 20

Ira

Does it feel good being stood up? No. Am I mad? A little. Am I over it? Eh.

I’m mostly mad that I felt like an ass in one of the nicest restaurants in town. At least I didn’t get the private room. Instead, I had them seat us – me – in the far corner where I could stew in my indignation in peace. When a half-hour passed and I hadn’t heard a peep from Kathleen about being late, I feared the worst. After one hour, I went ahead and ordered dinner, looking around the room for familiar faces.

The night wasn’t a total bust. I saw Jem Mercier and one of her business partners, and we had a good hour-long row about some of the latest scandals coming out of New York.

And when we had a lot to drink and her partner left, we started talking about what two big ol’ gay Dommes are wont to talk about late in the evening. Women. Sex.

I haven’t told anyone about Kathleen. None of it. So I didn’t tell Jem, but I did tell her I had been stood up for a date. She was aghast, if only because people like us aren’t used to being stood up. Unless it’s a fellow rich person who doesn’t find dinners like this out of the ordinary. Women like Jem prefer dating “commoner” women because they like to impress people. Although she’s been with Gwenyth forever, don’t let it fool you – Gwenyth was a bartender when they met. Just like that. Boom. In love with a gorgeous girl who could charm anyone out of their clothes. I mean, Gwenyth’s blond. Don’t think I haven’t thought about it.

Since, apparently, I have a thing for blondes.

Beautiful, cunning blondes who remind me of Kathleen. Fuck me. I’m a basic bitch at the end of the day.

I haven’t heard from her, and I don’t care. She’s made her decision. Do I wish she was less rude about it? Obviously. Do I want an explanation? Kinda. I know she’s not dead or otherwise indisposed because I would have heard about it. In fact, I heard on the grapevine that Kathleen was hanging out at Midnight, sulking and watching the Anderssens get their freak on.

Whatever.

I’m having a quiet evening at home. No work, no appointments, just me and Saoirse, who is having her seven o’clock crazies and mauling her favorite toy in the middle of the living room.

It’s the kind of night where I dim the lights and either sit in front of the computer or the TV. Long week. Time to decompress before my appointments this weekend.

Looks like it’s me, the cat, some brandy, and a website about felines and their weirdness. Don’t judge me. I like fluffy cat videos as much as the next dumbass.

Alcohol is barely in my mouth before someone buzzes my door.

Anyone who can go straight to my door is either on a list – like my father or Vivian – or someone who knows how to push over the doorman. Sometimes a random person will slip through, but for the most part, I can expect to recognize a friendly face when I open my door.

Suffice to say, I am not expecting to see another blonde draped across my doorway.

“Ira,” Stephanie May purrs, her tits spilling from her skimpy dress and her smile costing at least $10,000. “Long time no see. You haven’t returned my call, but I know from the news that you’re a busy, busy person.”

It’s true. Stephanie called me a few days ago to congratulate me on my win with the council. I didn’t respond, because I was still embarrassed about what happened, and because I was so consumed with Kathleen that other women weren’t even a consideration.

Well, looks like Kathleen isn’t happening. Stephanie is here instead.

I move away from the door so she can enter. The door closes, and there’s Stephanie, pushing herself up against my wall in the most tantalizing way. I’m not dumb. This woman came here for one thing. I guess even me calling her the wrong name during sex couldn’t override the power of other things.

I know what things.

“Can I get you a drink?” I hold up my brandy. “Or should we cut to the chase?”

Stephanie approaches, her long, lean legs a treat to behold. She plucks my glass from my hand and sips it, sure to wash her tongue all over the rim. I’m suddenly reminded of the fantastic way she sampled my trousers… what was it? Two? Three weeks ago? I can’t keep track.

You know, this might not be a boring night after all.