Lisa Jones - My Hunger

“Me,” Dean says. “They know me and my reputation. I’ll sue the stink out of their shit if they so much as blow the wrong air your direction. One of the first things I’m going to do is make sure the club records are safe. Get them off site, if you have them there, and bring them to me. They’ll go after the gallery and your home first. And anyone else they can connect to you and Rebecca.

“Like Ryan,” Tiger indicates. “And I’d guess Chris, if they find out he’s a member of the club, and they’ll get to Sara through Chris since she lives with him. Fortunately for Ryan, Ava seems to be pointing her anger elsewhere.”

I scrub my jaw. “I haven’t even warned him about all of this.”

“I’ll call him,” Dean offers.

“Back to the club,” Tiger interjects. “If things heat up, it’s a good idea to have someone in mind to sign the club over to. I don’t anticipate it being necessary, but it’s better to have a plan. We can do some paperwork to protect your rights. It will give me an argument, if we need it, that the only records of relevance are yours, Ava’s, and Rebecca’s.”

“What about Riptide?” I ask. “Can they touch it?”

Tiger straightens, resting his hands on the table, and I hope he’s as good as Dean claims. “That would be a very difficult stretch for them to make,” he replies.

“But they could try to make it,” I say, and it’s not a question.

“They can and will try about anything. That’s why I’ll be street-brawl ready if need be.”

“I don’t want you to need to be. I want this over quietly and quickly, and it seems the only way to do that is for me to talk to Ava and get her to tell the truth.”

“No.” Tiger’s voice is absolute steel. “Even if you get her to give up the body and it’s covered in her DNA evidence, you run the risk of her claiming you were involved or even the one who plotted it all out. They’ll use the Master-and-submissive relationship you favor against you.”

“Ava wasn’t my submissive.”

“Did she want to be?” Tiger asks.

Tension crawls up my spine. “Yes.”

“How did she pay for her membership at the club?”

“On her own. I didn’t sponsor her.”

Tiger glances at the paper in front of him and arches a brow. “How did a coffee bar manager get that kind of money?”

“She owns the coffee bar, but according to her she also had a family inheritance.”

“That explains a lot,” Dean comments dryly.

“Meaning?” I prod.

“She’s got a couple of hotshot, very expensive attorneys.”

Tiger taps the table. “Back to her wanting to be your sub. I’m guessing she’ll say she was trying to earn that role by doing as you wish.”

“He’s right,” Dean agrees. “It’s too risky for you to confront Ava.”

“Talk, not confront,” I correct.

“And if you convince her to change her story, they could say it’s the way you manipulate her and mess with her head,” Dean counters. “This is one of those calls attorneys make—like not putting someone on the stand.”

I am not pleased with this answer or the way it ties my hands. “Ava claimed Sara was involved in Rebecca’s murder. None of us had even met Sara in the timeframe in question. Surely that demonstrates she’s lying and hurts her credibility.”

“Eventually the truth will win out,” Tiger assures me. “But it’s going to be a hell of a ride.”

My cell phone rings and I pull it from my pocket. It’s Kurt, the manager of the club. I answer. “The police were just here,” Kurt tells me without preamble. “I sent them away, but I’m guessing they’ll be back.”

“Did any members see them?”

“We kept them behind the gate. How do they even know we exist?”

Ava, I think, regretting the day I ever approved her membership. “I’ll be there in half an hour.” I hang up and glance from Dean to Tiger. “The police showed up at the club.”

“Predictably,” Dean replies, “Ava told them where to find it, and her people are doing everything in their power to turn this on you.”

Tiger shifts in his seat and pulls his cell from his pocket. “I’ll call the detective in charge of the case and give him a good verbal beating. In the meantime, we need to get the records out of the club to protect the membership—preferably tonight.”

“I’ll go get them now,” I confirm.

“And stay away after you’re out,” he says. “I wouldn’t put it past the police to decide to bring you in for questioning while you’re there, to get past the doors. In fact, can someone else get the records?”

I give a shake of my head. “Not with the security system I have in place. I need to open the safe.”

“Then get in and get out,” he replies.

“One final heads-up,” Dean cautions, as they both stand. “Ava’s team could decide to anonymously tip off a reporter. Who knows what creative story they might tell, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it was along the lines of ‘a dead woman and a BDSM Master.’ It’s the kind of story that will get major attention, and apply pressure on the cops and the suits.”

“I’d sure take that route if she were my client,” Tiger confirms. “But they might not be that smart or that brave.”

“Ava is,” I say. “She’s crazy, but she’s smart.” I scrub at the tension at the back of my neck. “I’ll have the records here in the morning.”

“Don’t keep them with you,” Dean warns. “I need to stay away from the club right now, too, but call me when you have them in hand and I’ll pick them up.”

I give him a nod and shake Tiger’s hand. Ready to get this trip to the club over with, I exit the conference room and, needing to burn off the emotion clawing at me, I take the stairs. I’ve just reached the garage and settled into my Jag when my cell phone rings.

Noting Crystal’s name on the ID, I answer. “Ms. Smith,” I say, punching the ignition button and hoping for at least one piece of good news. “How’s my mother doing?”

“I talked to your father and he said she’s still not feeling well. They’re running tests with no results back yet. Mark, I’m not in New York. I’m here in San Francisco. I need to see you.”

I brake at the exit to the garage. “What? Why? You’re supposed to be looking after Riptide.”

“I have my father’s private jet. I can go back tonight if you want me to.”

“If I want you to? What the hell does that mean, Crystal?”

“I’d rather explain in person. I’m at the gallery. Are you here? Can you let me in?”

A sense of foreboding fills me. “Is everyone safe?”

“Yes.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“And Riptide?”

“Is under control.”

“What are you doing here, Ms. Smith?”

“In person,” she repeats. “I need to see you.”

I hear the stubbornness in her voice, and say, “I’m not at the gallery. Do you have a hotel?”

“Not yet.”

“Meet me at my house in an hour. I’ll text you the address.”

“Wait, Mark. The plane—”

I hit the End button, and it’s all I can do not to go to her now and find out what bombshell she has waiting for me.

And it will be a bombshell. I’m sure of it.

Twenty minutes later, I’ve ignored three calls from Crystal, tried to reach my father to no avail, and I’m finally at the gates of the club. It is only a few blocks from my home in Cow Hollow. I punch in a code on a panel. The steel entry starts to open and I hit the intercom, announcing myself, and instruct the attendant, “Make sure Kurt knows I’m here.”

Shifting the car into gear, I travel the long driveway draped in heavy foliage for privacy, and around the curved drive to park in front of the sprawling mansion that’s only one of many buildings on the several miles wide property. Opening my door, I hand off my keys to one of the longtime attendants. Without a word to anyone else, I head up the long stairway to the double red doors meant to signify money and power.

After another long-term employee, a security guard wearing the standard black suit I require, greets me at the top level, I enter the house. As Dean had pointed out, members pay a hefty price to join the club, and the foyer, like the rest of the property, is decorated with fine art and expensive furnishings to create the luxury they expect. Those fees also encourage confidentiality, both that of the members and the staff, and my role as Master is to the protection of everyone here—a role I take deadly serious. The idea of failing in my duties is unthinkable, and Ava’s betraying the secrets of the membership is a failure.

Kurt, an ex–Navy SEAL and head of security, joins me in the foyer, his long blond hair tied at his nape, showing a four-inch scar he wears proudly down his cheek.

“My office,” I order. We head down a separate set of stairs, not as ornate as the stairs up, which are lined with mahogany rails, and into the finished basement that includes a dungeon area and my office.

As I reach the foot of the steps a memory stirs in my mind, of bringing Sara down here to the dungeon. It had been the night that Chris had lost it, mourning a little boy dying of cancer. I’d known Chris had tumbled into darkness that evening, pushing too hard for escape, beyond safety and reason. Chris had once been a friend, one I still didn’t want to see crash and burn, perhaps because his strength felt like my own. It was my job as Master to make the decision to break code and stop the beating he was demanding. And as much as I’d tried to prevent Sara from ending up with Chris, I’d known she was the only way I’d get him out of that dungeon in my club.