Page 7 of Submit (Two Wheeled Psychos #3)

The sun shining in through the window does nothing to warm my mentation as I climb out of bed, wiping the crusties from the corners of my eyes.

I’m tired and grouchy as my feet hit the floor and I stand up, stretching my back out by reaching for the ceiling and bending backwards.

Everything in me cracks and pops from how restless my rest actually was.

Not even the drive to work made me feel better, and by the time I reach my office with my coffee in hand, I’m just more annoyed with everything and everyone around me.

I didn’t enjoy the dipping in and out of traffic, or the revving of the engine as I floored it in the open spots.

I barely even registered as the valet took my keys with his customary nod, and I sure as shit didn’t notice Jerry’s warm welcome as usual.

I’m bitter, and that in itself is pissing me off.

A knock on my door takes my blank stare off the ground and park below just before it opens, and Ashley pops her head in.

I can see a slight shadowing around her neck from my grip less than twelve hours ago, and normally I would feel some kind of remorse for it, but not now.

She wanted it as much as I did, and she enjoyed it just as well.

“You good?” She asks, her blue eyes scanning me up and down, noticing my slightly rumpled clothes since I was too irritated to get out the iron this morning and freshly press my shirt, because the dry cleaner never does a good enough job before sliding my clothes into those clear plastic bags of annoying hell.

“Fine.” I grunt, slamming my mug down on the corner of my desk, splashing a drop of the hot coffee out on my hand, burning the edge of my tattoo, making the skin red.

“You don’t look or sound fine. Did I do something wrong last night?” She asks, and I can see it in her, the fear that she somehow disappointed me.

Ever the submissive.

“No.” I sigh, licking away the drop from my hand. “Come here and lock the door.” I add, softening my demeanor, trying to push my irritation to the side.

Even though she is no longer in a scene with me, the aftercare doesn’t end when she’s in my presence, and last night I royally sucked at it.

Bad dominant. Get your shit together.

Her eyes light up and she hustles inside, latching the door securely behind her. She knows what’s coming. It’s what I should have done last night, instead of being a fucking asshole to her.

The sigh that comes from her lips gets lost in my chest as I pull her into me, pressing her cheek to me, holding her tightly.

She absolutely melts into me, her small body being completely supported by mine and the hold I have on her.

Absolute submission. It’s beautiful, and I only wish it was enough for me, and maybe in another life it would be, but not this one, and especially not now.

“I’m sorry.” I say quietly, kissing the top of her head. “You did nothing wrong. You were perfect. It’s a me problem.”

“Is there anything I can do?” She asks, wrapping her arms around my middle, snuggling her head harder into my chest, her eyes fluttering closed.

“No. It’s something I have to figure out on my own. But thanks. Really.”

“Your heart is beating really fast.”

“Yeah. I know.” I sigh again, petting her hair and giving her the time I know she needs with me.

It’s only a few minutes, but the embrace helps me too. I didn’t think it would, but the nonsexual, physical touch helps pull me from the darkness plaguing my head and centers me better than I could on my own.

But did you even try?

I can feel the ire leaving and my pulse coming down as she leans on me, her breathing slowing and becoming silent, her arms losing their strength in the grip on my torso.

It’s enough that I need to sit down on the corner of my desk, pushing the coffee out of the way so I don’t spill any more.

She comes with me, her body between my legs, and settles herself on me for another moment.

“Better?”

“Yeah, you?” I ask her, pulling her face form my chest, and wiping the little crease in her skin from my shirt.

“Yeah. Are we good?”

“Always.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“Shhh, easy kitten. I’m not Sir to you here. Simply Adrian, your dick of a boss.” I chuckle, as I tenderly brush away a lock of hair from her eyes.

“You were kind of a dick last night too.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re forgiven.”

“Thank you.”

Straightening herself up, she backs a step away from me. “Do you need anything? For work I mean?”

“Nah, go do whatever it is, you need to do. I’m good.”

I can’t imagine piling her with work today. She needs the time to get herself back after last night just like I do. I can barely see me getting any work done, so how can I expect her to outperform me? Nope, ain’t gonna happen. It’s the least I can do to give her an easy day.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I’m gonna have an easy day, then maybe go to the club tonight to clear my head. I think I need it.”

“Do you want company?”

“Not tonight, kitten. But thanks.”

Watching her step away and leave the office gives me another sense of peace.

I need the quiet, the time to reflect so that when I walk into the private, exclusive, BDSM club tonight, I can go in with a fresh of a mind as possible, hopefully to leave there with a better outlook on everything, including my mystery woman in the alley.

The rest of the day is quiet, with me turning off my cell and unplugging the landline on my desk.

I turn off the computer, and the television on the wall, and flop my ass down on one of the two leather couches in the center of the room.

Kicking off my shoes and clasping my hands on my chest, I settle into the pillows and supple cushions, close my eyes, and just breathe.

It's a second night in a row that the cleaning lady brings me out of my head, and now out of my sleep. The day has turned dark outside the large windows, and the black sky twinkles brightly with thousands of stars as she toils around the room, cleaning around me as if I weren’t even there.

Being close to the park, the light pollution isn’t so bad, and I do get the advantage of seeing stars on the nights I’m here late. They’re calming to see, knowing that the light in them has already perished by the time it has reached my eyes.

Turning my phone back on, I call downstairs and have the valet bring the Porsche around while I grab my coat and shrug into it, bearing my maid a quiet goodnight.

With a twenty tossed on the coffee table for her as a thank you for being quiet and private, I head downstairs to begin the night that I need to clear my head, beginning with a drive in my favorite sports car.

God, I really need the bike. Come on Miami trip.

~~~

The front door of the club swings open, the little chime in the welcome mat ringing out to announce my arrival under my shiny black shoes as I step inside.

From the front of the building you would never know what resided inside.

It’s a nondescript building with blackened front windows at the end of a large promenade shopping area.

It could be any large storefront, but it’s not.

Behind the smoked glass and white exterior lies a space that is as deviant and dark as I am. Maybe more so even. Who knows.

The official name is Kelly’s, named after the vixen who opened it many years ago, originally as a speakeasy during prohibition times.

All the members just call it the club though.

The décor still brings you back to those times, with its secretive passageways and hidden rooms. The main bar, snuggled safely beyond the multiple playrooms is opulent and expensive, just the way I like things, with the dark woods, and even darker fabrics in reds and golds.

As I walk through the main corridor, I nod politely to some of the other members I’ve gotten to know over the years. The men are dressed in fancy suits, and their women come dressed usually in nothing more than skimpy attire, or nothing at all besides the collar they wear for their owner.

Quiet twenties flapper music plays subtly in the background from little speakers in the corners of the room, hidden by the rooms decorations, giving the place a playful yet mysterious vibe.

Max at the bar is in his customary black slacks and black shirt with gold piping on the collar and cuffs.

He smiles at me as he wipes down a Collins glass with his towel, his elderly face wrinkling around his eyes and mouth.

His snow-white hair glows almost yellow under the soft lighting, making him look almost like an angel in a sea of debauchery.

“Mr. Lambert, good to see you tonight, and on a Tuesday.” He says, setting down his towel and the glass, grabbing the bottle of scotch that I silently point to.

“Yes, Max. I needed a little…refreshment tonight.” I say, giving him a sly grin as he slides the three-finger deep drink in front of me.

“Well, you’re in the right place as always.”

“Absolutely.” I agree, taking the first sip of the amber liquid that slides down my throat like a warm hug.

He leaves me to attend to other patrons, and the bar around me falls almost silent, minus the soft music that swirls around me. It really is nice, the way it sounds, mixed with the aroma of the scotch, and the perfumes of the women close by. It’s rich, dark, heady, and feels like home.

“Adrian.” My name floats to my ears just before a hand lands on my shoulder, making me twitch.

I don’t like being touched by others, especially other men. It’s rude and unwelcomed. With a quiet growl I straighten myself up and brush the intruder’s hand from me.

“Tyler.” I say without having to look behind me.

Tyler Richmond, the club’s biggest asshole, and meanest dominant, or should I say sadist, rubs me the wrong way in every which way.

From his always messy black hair and beady black eyes that remind me of a snake’s, to the stupid Boston accent that laces his words.

Even the way he ties his shoes pisses me off, and I have no idea why.

Maybe because he also lives in my neighborhood, pretending to be what he’s not. Someone like me.

His cologne smells cheap, and his clothes look like knock offs of the designer ones I wear, because he’s a man who hasn’t yet made it in this society but likes to think he has.

Just because he won the lottery and made about ten million, doesn’t make him one of the big boys.

Not around here, and not in my very small circle.

Every week he has a new broad on his arm, dying to get ahold of the money they think he has, but I can imagine there’s not much left of it with the way he spends frivolously on the cheap whores.

He uses them, abuses them, then tosses them away and moves on to the next one when she can’t take his heavy hand and nasty words anymore and fights back.

He's what we call a fake dom, one who uses the title to attract the ladies with promises of safe submission. What he really is, is a sadist who likes to hurt them physically and mentally just for fun. It’s sickening, and something I can’t fucking stand.

More than once I’ve wanted to take his plaything and rescue her, but that in itself in this lifestyle is frowned upon, unless there’s an emergent situation where it’s a necessity.

So for now, I just tolerate him, and ignore him as best as I can, unless he’s touching me, like he is, again.

His weaselly fingers brush my shirt sleeve, feeling the soft cotton like he’s sizing it up for his next imitation one.

“Can I help you?” I ask him as I sigh around the rim of my glass.

“Just saying hello, neighbor.”

“Yeah, neighbor. Okay.”

“Oh and I wanted to introduce you to someone.” He says, sitting down next to me on the padded stool to my right. “Although I think you may have already met.”