Dirty Ugly Toy (17 page)

“You never told me how the rest of the night went despite having heard this story several times,” Natalie says, her pen tapping her full lip.

I pinch the top of my nose to run the memories away. It’s like I can still smell her. The stench of her cigarette smoke on her clothes. And what I now understand is body odor. With the recitation of the memory comes the flood of sensations that remind me of my mother.

“She left me to play with the little girl. A few hours later, she came back. I’d just snuggled under the blanket with the girl and she was showing me the baby doll she got. Mama said she had to work and dragged me out of there. She was in such a hurry, I forgot to grab my socks.”

Bitter tears well in my eyes and I shake my head to force the memory away. I’d been so upset and begged to go back. Mama slapped me and told me to shut up. She had important things to do. That night, she fucked that stupid Santa in his car while I sat on the curb watching his metal can of money. I ate every single one of his candy canes and when I realized I couldn’t get the money out of the can, I pissed inside of it.

“It’s not your fault, Braxton.”

Natalie’s calm voice drags me to the present. Of course it isn’t my fault. I was a naïve little brat who worshipped his unfit mother.

“Well, it’s been real fun, Doc, but I have work to do. Thanks for making me feel worse than before.”

She frowns. Natalie is pretty for her fifty-something years of age. Long blonde hair tied into a sleek bun and donning a fitted suit. But she’s not my type. Too put together. Too refined. Not trashy enough. I’ve never pushed for anything more than friendship and she’s never had the balls to come on to me. Despite my being younger, she’s always been attracted to me. It’s obvious but neither of us act on it.

Ignoring me, she cuts to the chase. “Do you think your new ‘guest’ is causing you to think about your mother more? Is that why you favor her? You think you can really fix
her
this time?”

I slam my eyes closed and think about Bunny. When she all but inhaled that banana on the day I picked her up, I felt empathetic toward her hunger. When she shivered from being cold, I wanted to warm her. When Trevor tried to hurt her, I wanted to protect her.

But Bunny doesn’t remind me of my mother.

In fact, a toy named Kitten—one of the first toys I took on—reminded me the most of my mom. Despite being off all the drugs, Kitten still found ways to smuggle in cigarettes and hide them all over the house. That woman craved nicotine and no matter how much Cartier cleaned her up, she always reminded me of
her
. And with her, I was the harshest. With Kitten, I scarred her body and her mind. I enjoyed every fucking second. It wasn’t about reforming her—it was about punishing her. Boy did she suffer.

Bunny is different though.

Bunny reminds me of the cold, hungry, feisty little boy who hid in the closet all those years while Mama fucked her johns. Bunny reminds me of me.

And that changes everything.

“N
o!”

His scent is gone and I jerk up into a sitting position. I expect to see the fire cackling across from his bed—to see the view of Lake Sammamish beyond the windows. Instead, I see death. I see horror. I see hate.

I see purple.

I’m still naked so I scramble to the first place I get to in order to hide from it. The closet. But this time, it’s filled from top to bottom. No wonder Cartier made friends with the sexy salesman—he paid his rent for the next six months just on commissions from all the clothes he bought.

Holy shit.

This closet with its color-coded garments and rows of expensive, gorgeous shoes remind me of my home back in Georgia. The memory is a sour one so I cling to the way I used to seek refuge in my large closet. How I’d get lost reading a book or sometimes taking a nap on the small sofa inside. For some reason, when I’d go in there,
he
would leave me alone. And I welcomed the peaceful sanctuary.

And then later, I’d sing in there.

I’d whisper unspoken promises.

A sharp pang of grief slices through me and I double over panting.

I blink several times and take deep breaths to keep the panic from overtaking me. This job should be easy but it’s been by far the most complicated and difficult endeavor I’ve undertaken in the last six years.

The racks are all lined with luxurious garments and I’m angry that Cartier didn’t buy me one single comfortable thing to wear. Everything is dresses and skirts. I don’t want any of it. With a frustrated huff, I locate a pair of pretty panties—as if I have a choice in the matter—and matching bra. After taking a long, hot shower and braiding my wet hair down to one side, I find a plush robe on the hanger behind the door. I make quick work of brushing my teeth and forgo makeup altogether.

Thankfully, he didn’t lock me in the purple hell. I pad barefoot quickly through the room and out into the lobby. As soon as my bare feet hit the marble, a shiver passes through me. I’m going to throw a shit fit until they buy me some comfortable clothes I can hang out in during the day.

The ride down is uneventful. I consider going back to his room and climbing into his bed but I know better. Brax took me out of there for a reason. He’s having second thoughts about the night before.

He thinks I’m a mistake.

As soon as the elevator doors open, the smell of bacon makes my stomach grumble. Having puked most of my dinner up last night, I’m starving. I try to push away thoughts of Trevor. He wasn’t necessarily rough but he was persistent. I’d been too fucked up to stop him.

And now he’s dead.

A smile crosses over my lips until Dubois steps into my vision. “Where’s Braxton?”

His brows furrow together in frustration and I nearly laugh at him. But I need for him to take me seriously, so I swallow down my reaction at my effect on him. “Miss, he’s in a meeting. Christine has breakfast ready and—”

Pushing past him, I make my way to Brax’s office with a bitching Dubois hot on my heels. I’m quicker than he is and shove my way into the office. I nearly cheer aloud when I find that today it isn’t locked.

That is, until a stunning blonde inside turns to give me an interested stare. Her palm is resting on Brax’s shoulder and she nearly sickens me with her cloying sweet smile. My hackles rise upon seeing her.

“We need to talk,” I blurt out, dragging my eyes from the woman to Brax.

He seems surprised, almost pleased, to see me but his face becomes one of feigned disinterest after a few seconds. I don’t miss his initial reaction and I won’t let him get off that easy.

“I believe talking is a splendid idea,” the woman agrees, her blood red painted nails curled over his shoulder like that of the claws of a vulture. “You must be Bunny.”

“My name is Jessica.”

“Lovely to meet you,” she says in a warm tone that I don’t fully trust.

She peers down at Braxton with understanding written all over her face and pats his shoulder. I’m upset that I seem to be the problem here and she is his support.

“Jessica, I’m Natalie Goldstein, a friend of Mr. Kennedy’s. I’m a Certified Sex Addiction Therapist that specializes in BDSM.”

Sex addiction. BDSM.

I frown at her words and flash him a questioning look. He’s watching my every move with interest, as if I’m the unusual one, and doesn’t seem at all alarmed to speak so openly about such notions. Hours ago, he was inside of me. His lips were all over me—tasting and worshipping me.

But now?

Now, he seems eager for this woman to tell him what to do.

“You know what? Forget it. I’ll talk to him later.
Alone
.” I start to leave the office when a thundering voice stops me in my tracks.

“Stop.”

His voice is deep and the authoritative current underneath causes me to take pause. I turn to look at him, expecting to see the look of want and happiness in his eyes from last night. Instead, his eyes flicker with anger and his mouth is drawn into a firm, unimpressed line. Much to my dismay, he’s not upset with her—his anger is directed at me.

What did I do?

“Nat here is going to help us. Clearly, I’ve struggled in my role,” he says in a gruff tone. “I’m a sadist and a dominant.”

I swallow and glance over at her. She smiles and nods her head. Despite her easy manner, I don’t like the fact that she’s been brought into the middle of our relationship. Why do we have to have roles? Why can’t we just be us?

“Then what am I? A whipping post?”

She speaks up. “Jessica, honey, from what Brax has explained to me, you’re a masochist. What the two of you have is a budding sadomasochistic relationship, as well as, a dominant/submissive relationship. He likes giving pain and you like receiving it. It is in a sadist’s nature to transform this pain into pleasure.”

I frown but she continues.

“The relationship is extreme to say the least but that’s what makes it so fulfilling for both parties involved. The dominant/submissive side, however, is about control.”

“You do as I say. No questions asked,” he says with a grunt.

Her lips quirk up into a smile. “Essentially, yes. But not because she has to, Brax. Because she wants to. It’s something each of you look to the other for.”

“I don’t like being controlled,” I argue, but my voice falters.

“But you do like the pain he gives to you? So you think you’re a masochist but not a submissive?”

Her desire to label me stresses me out. If I’d wanted help for my twisted head, I’d have sought out a therapist six years ago. “I don’t know what I am,” I admit.

“Jessica, I’d love to have a private session with you. To learn a little more about your sexual interests.”

I cringe at having the sex doctor pick apart my pickled brain. “No thanks. I’m over this.”

“Actually,” Brax barks, “you’re not over this. Lest I remind you that you agreed to this—that you’re being paid an exuberant amount to ‘pretend’ if you will.”

“I don’t know much about these
labels
you’re trying to slap on me,” I hiss out, my voice growing shriller with each word, “but I do know enough to know that some sort of safe word or some shit should at least be in play here. But I don’t have that. I’m homeless and I’ve signed a contract saying I have to stay or reimburse a twenty-five percent restocking fee. So there’s no ‘choice’ here for me.”

His voice is fire as he spits out his next words in anger. “I told you to read the damn contract. You don’t listen for shit sometimes.”

“I know for a fact that there’s an out for you,” Dr. Goldstein says in a calm manner, “if that’s what you wanted.”

Brax tears open his filing cabinet and shoves the contract in my face. This time, I scan it more carefully.

Safe word is
pause
. Mutual consent required by both parties at all times. Blah, blah, blah. A lot of fucking zeros.

I have the power to stop it any time I want to. Problem is, I need all those fucking zeros. My shoulders slouch in defeat.

He flashes me a satisfied grin and takes the contract back, safely stowing it away in his filing cabinet. “Training begins today, Bunny.”

I let out an irritated sigh. “And what might that be? Are you going to put a collar on my neck and make me eat lunch from a dog bowl?”

Our eyes are zeroed in on one another. His nostrils flare with each breath he takes and his jaw clenches with a fury that he seems to be summoning from deep within. I’m overwhelmed by this “sex intervention” and want to cry. I even bite my cheek to keep it from happening. Where is the man who held me last night?

“Dubois,” Brax calls out, his glare unmoving from my own. “Have Cartier dress my toy like the whore she is. I’m ready to impart her first lesson upon her.”

The disgust in his voice nearly cripples me with shock. I knew he was a moody fucker but this is downright twisted.

But then I remember the whole goddamned scenario is twisted. I agreed to come “play” with this rich bastard for six months. He doesn’t have a connection to me nor does he like me. He wants to use and abuse me. Just like the rest of them. A fire begins to burn in my chest and I desperately fuel the flames.

“You’re an asshole, Braxton,” I hiss as Dubois grabs my arm. “Have fun playing doctor with the old lady.” I’m momentarily satisfied when the doctor flinches at my words, her smile giving way to a frown. She seems hurt by my words though, not annoyed, and I hate that I feel guilty about that.