Tymber Dalton - The Denim Dom

Kimberly snorted. “If sex ed had been this much fun in high school, I might have actually enjoyed it and learned something.”

“You’ve got that right.”

Kimberly left with a wave. Shayla gathered her things to return to her desk. There might have been other things I wouldn’t have suffered through, either. Like giving James a second chance.

Kimberly grabbed Shayla a little before five Friday afternoon. “You and me are going out after work today. No excuses.”

Shayla tried to find one and couldn’t. Not to mention the orange-haired imp’s enthusiasm was contagious. “Okay, uncle. Where are we going?”

“Just over to Main Street. There’s a new tapas bar there I want to try. We can walk. Suzanne’s coming with.”

She had wanted to make friends. This was one way to do it. “Deal.”

She walked over with them. The late-afternoon sun sent golden shafts steeply slanting between the buildings and trees planted along the sidewalks, and the sea breeze had cooled the warm air to a pleasant, albeit slightly muggy, temperature.

“How do you like Florida so far?” Suzanne asked her.

“Different in a good way.” A freak snowstorm had just dumped three inches of snow on Cleveland that morning. And here she was, in short sleeves and sandals, walking several blocks from the office. “I certainly can’t complain about the weather.”

“Do you have any family down here?” Kimberly asked.

“Nope. Took a leap of faith based on the job offer. I’m glad I did. It’s beautiful here.”

“Just needed a change of scenery, huh?” Suzanne asked.

“You could say that.”

Kimberly looked at the addresses as they walked. “There it is.” She pointed and led the way.

The small restaurant smelled heavenly. With the space nearly filled to capacity, they were lucky to get a table by the front windows. “I’m sorry we haven’t taken you out sooner,” Suzanne said. “I finally had a night free. I’ve been wanting to get together with you since you started.”

“She runs Mom’s Taxi Service,” Kimberly teased. “Between dance classes and scouts and sports, her little heathens run her ragged.”

“Oh, how many kids?” Shayla asked.

“Two boys, nine and thirteen, and a girl, fifteen. I told Hubby that either he took them out for pizza tonight and gave me a mental health break, or he’d be doing ballet practice and Girl Scouts for three months. Needless to say, he jumped at the chance.”

Shayla laughed. “Gave him his marching orders, huh?”

Suzanne nodded as she browsed the menu. “I don’t mean to sound bitchy. He’s a good husband and a good father. There are times I just have to crack the whip on him.”

Shayla fought the urge to giggle at that. Since starting her research she found herself able to turn the most innocuous of statements into something tinged with innuendo.

“Maybe he likes it when you crack the whip,” Kimberly chimed in, echoing Shayla’s thoughts.

Suzanne shrugged. “No, he’s just a stupid guy sometimes. Has to be reminded hello, I need a life, too. Do you have any kids, Shayla?”

She shook her head. “No. Doubt I will, either.”

“Biological clock’s not ticking loudly, huh?” Kimberly asked.

Shayla snorted. “I think it’s on permanent snooze. Right now, I’m at a happy place in my life and I’m enjoying the simplicity of it. There’s little I’d change. It’d take a damn special guy working overtime to make me want to make any changes.”

I’ve wasted too many years of my life on someone else as it is, she silently added.

* * *

Shayla refused to listen to any more of the taped conversation or look at her notes or research BDSM online that night. She’d be attending the class in less than twenty-four hours, and wouldn’t spend the night obsessing over the subject. Ross had forwarded her the name and e-mail address of a guy she’d meet on Saturday, a Dom who also taught the whip class she’d signed up for.

She’d put off e-mailing him because of the overwhelming amount of information she already had to sift through.

Hell, I’ll be meeting him tomorrow anyway.

Instead, she found an old Abbott and Costello movie on TV and curled up on her couch to watch it with a microwaved chicken pot pie.

Maybe I need a cat. James had been allergic to cats. Even though Shayla had cats growing up, she didn’t get one in the hectic years of college, and later going to work for the paper. By the time she’d begun thinking about getting one, she’d already met and started dating James, which put an end to that idea.

Her apartment complex allowed up to two cats per unit, with a minimum extra deposit. She could even have a small dog if she wanted, but wasn’t sure she was ready for that level of commitment. A cat wouldn’t rely on her the way a dog would.

And she expected indifference tempered by occasional attention from a cat. She’d be afraid of letting a dog down if she got too busy with work.

I’d feel a little less lonely when I was home, at least.

The crying jag hit her from out of nowhere. Before she realized it, a lump swelled in her throat as her eyes prickled from the sting of tears. Up in Ohio, she had friends who had lives and families. While she e-mailed and texted and Facebooked with them, it wasn’t the same.

Down here, she had no one yet. Her loneliness after the nice time she’d had with Kimberly and Suzanne only exacerbated the void in her life. If she was back up in Cleveland right now, she’d be out with Allison and others.

Okay, sure, I’d be up to my ankles in snow and slush, granted.

But she wouldn’t be alone.

When she’d announced her move, her parents had implored her not to make such a sudden change. Leave James and move into her own place, sure, but stay in Cleveland. Or move back to Minnesota and live with them and look for a new job there.

Neither option appealed to her at the time. Then Allison had mentioned the job to her and it seemed like a great opportunity.

Shayla had needed out and away from everything reminding her of James more than she seriously considered the ramifications of the move. Finding the Sarasota job seemed like a gift from the Universe. Her brother, who also lived in Cleveland, gave her lessons on how to drive the rented moving truck with her car towed behind it on a dolly before he and his friends helped her load what little she was taking with her. Barely enough to furnish a one-bedroom apartment. She only took what she had before she met James, or things she’d bought that wouldn’t remind her of him.

Allison’s brother’s friend contacted two friends of his in Sarasota, where they were originally from, and arranged for them to meet Shayla at the new apartment and help her unload in exchange for pizza and beer. Both of the men were nice, but she was thirty-three and the men were twelve years younger than her and still in school at New College.

She didn’t exactly feel a biological clock ticking inside her. She just wished she could meet someone to hang out with. Someone she could get to know casually at first. Maybe more later, if she felt attracted to them.

Hell, she’d settle for girlfriends to get together with to kvetch and unwind.

I’m definitely not in a hurry to get attached to someone else. Looking at her bank account and comparing that to what she owed in money she hadn’t spent nearly made her sick. She could have filed charges against James, and then contested the fraudulent credit cards. That would have meant staying in Ohio and being tied to the man. He’d sworn he would repay her, but considering his lack of tenacity in sticking to his other promises, she wouldn’t hold her breath.

Losing the money meant a clean break. And it would be a stern reminder to herself to keep her head firmly on her shoulders in the future. To never trust someone without a lot of proof.

If she needed an orgasm, well, she had a vibrator.

And it couldn’t take out credit cards in her name without permission.

* * *

The next morning she tackled a stack of boxes she’d shoved into the far corner of her living room after the move. Knickknacks and odds and ends, books—all the extras that made a house homey, but weren’t necessary to unpack immediately such as kitchen utensils and pots and pans.

She tried not to think about the apartment she’d left behind. James had stayed at a friend’s place for a couple of weeks while she moved out, agreeing he’d take over the full rent and utilities once she left. She didn’t trust him to do it until she accompanied him personally and witnessed him signing the paperwork at the rental company’s office, and at the offices of the various utilities.

Although in retrospect, that apartment, while larger, hadn’t been in as nice a complex as she lived in now. The old complex was made up of older, brick buildings and had little green space to speak of due to its proximity to downtown.

And none of the units in this complex had burglar bars on the first-floor units, either. No trash blown into the corners. No graffiti on the back walls or fences. She also had a screened lanai all to herself, with a short privacy fence on either side hiding her view of the neighbors.

There was the added benefit of having a pool and a hot tub, both open at all hours for residents. And a workout room she had yet to explore. This unit even had its own washer and dryer, stacked in a closet by the kitchen, making life very convenient.

No more hours spent reading while sitting on the washer to keep her clothes from getting stolen.

While packing, she’d ruthlessly downsized to her pre-James days. She’d lived perfectly comfortably before him, albeit in a tiny apartment even smaller than this one. Anything having to do with the wedding planning got trashed. She left behind anything else that she didn’t want.

Her opinion was he caused the mess, he could deal with it.

God help his next ex.

When she finished unpacking those boxes and broke them down to take to the recycling Dumpster later, she looked around, nodding with satisfaction.

It was comfortable, homey.

And all mine.

Now if only she could remove the traces of James from her heart and memory the same way she had from her apartment.

* * *

Fighting a close battle with her nervous stomach, Shayla pulled up to the address listed on the information page of the club’s website fifteen minutes before the scheduled start time of the class. The club was located in one of several nondescript two-story warehouse suites located in a large complex just east of I-75 in Sarasota, not too far south of Fruitville Road. The area didn’t look run-down or seedy, with other assorted businesses such as a custom automotive restoration shop, a cabinet shop, and a water softener distributor also located in the complex, but apparently closed for the weekend.

Six other cars were also parked in front of the address, which was identified only by an address number plate and a small sign reading VENTURE in black, block-print letters.

She double-checked the address and stared at the building again. On its surface she saw nothing that hinted at what kinky pursuits occurred inside.

Loren and Ross had assured Shayla that the Submission 101 class was the perfect place for her to begin her first-hand research and allow her to see different aspects and opinions of the lifestyle.

Not to mention they would help fill in any blanks or correct any misconceptions Shayla had in her research thus far.

Taking a deep breath, she grabbed her purse and notebook and headed inside. The blacked-out glass door opened into a large lobby. Three of the walls were filled with merchandise—collars, cuffs, canes and crops and other implements she couldn’t identify. There was a section of books, both fiction and nonfiction. At the far end of the lobby, a young woman manned the desk. She looked up and smiled at Shayla’s entrance.

“Welcome to Venture. Here for the class?”

Shayla nodded. “I’m supposed to meet Loren here.”

“Oh! You must be the one she told me about. She’s already inside.” The woman handed her a clipboard with a simple form on it. “Fill this out for me real quick, please. And I need your driver’s license or some sort of photo ID, and ten dollars for the class.”

Shayla handed over her shiny new Florida license and a ten-dollar bill. She quickly read through the form before filling it out. It was a basic information form, privacy agreement, liability waiver, and listed the club’s rules.