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CHAPTER ONE: CAME, SAW, KICKED ASS
Max Wells walked into Donovan’s, feeling both ridiculous and titillated.
At Kat Valdez-Richard’s suggestion, Max had ditched the power suit at the office and opted for a slinky, black, amountless dress that left her feeling naked without the blouse and jacket that she’d normally pair it with. As a novelty and part of the dare, Max buckled the borrowed black leather choker around her neck, the collar-like style both an homage and a joking jab to the S&M reputation of the club.
A part of her—much larger than she’d ever admit—wondered why she was doing this at all.
But, Kat’s words—even weeks later—still stung and goaded a little.
———
“You just don’t get it.” Her friend and up-and-comer in the erotica world rolled dark eyes at Max. “This kind of stuff happens all the time; you just don’t know it.” She shrugged and lounged in the cushioned chair across from Max’s desk.
Max scoffed, tapping her pen on the cluttered desk testily. “Look, I just don’t get the appeal.” She thumbed through the manuscript in front of her. “I mean, I’ve got no problem with your main character getting a little nookie between chapters—I’m all for sex positivity and women having healthy sexual experiences—but the whole bending to his will thing?” She gave her friend a scolding look, pursing perfectly painted lips. “It’s been done to death. I just don’t think that today’s modern, female reader wants to read that anymore.”
“You mean, you don’t,” Kat said smugly. “Max, you had no problem with my last book where Sheriff Rachel Lee handcuffed Tray Willis to her radiator before ravishing the hell out of him.”
“That’s different. Portraying women as not only in control of their own sexuality but also as assertive, even aggressive participants in the sex act is progressive and enlightened, not to mention sexy as hell.” Max tucked the pen behind her ear, where it was held in place by her tightly bound, bright red hair, and leaned back. “It’s sexy in a way that having Lila Stone beg Federal Agent Vin Morris to spank her harder just isn’t.”
“Why not?”
“It’s demeaning to women, Kat.” Their seven-year friendship had to take a back seat where work was concerned, so Max’s stern, brown eyes stared down the new and headstrong author. “You know that Elysia Publishing doesn’t print that kind of thing anymore. We do chick lit, clit lit, and romance with edge—and proudly—but we don’t do misogyny.”
“It’s not misogynistic!” Kat tossed her long, black hair back with a spunky temper Max was still becoming used to. Kat hadn’t been so spirited, so tenacious—not until a few years ago—and Max was still deciding whether she liked the change in her friend. “You make Lila sound like some victim. She’s not. She knows exactly what she wants. She wants to be bare-ass strapped and she wants it now.”
God, the way her friend talked sometimes!
Max had always felt like Kat’s big sister. Like a protector or something. Kat was so small and so meek; a mouse of a girl trapped in the big, bad cubicle maze.
Or at least she’d used to be.
Now she was strong-willed and confident, a successfully open-minded, seductively filthy-mouthed writer.
Kat waved her hands in the air. “That’s hardly the voice of a victim, Max. Hell, it takes about three chapters for Lila to convince Vin to do it. She even bargains with him to play with her, to tie her up and flog her, for information she’s withholding. It’s completely consensual. If anything, Vin is held subject to Lila’s demands.”
“Which is exactly what I don’t get. Why would anyone ever willingly ask to be humiliated and abused?” Max asked, perplexed and, if she were completely honest, a little disappointed and irritated with her friend. Kat was such a good author—a fresh and, as an Asian American woman, diverse voice in a literary genre bogged down in smutty, shock-value drivel and sugar-coated, purple-prosed fluff. Max hated to see such a talent succumb to old stereotypes dressed up as tabooly trendy pigeonholes.
And not just professionally.
Max knew where all that change had come from, what had transformed her friend so dramatically. Kat had an…interesting relationship—marriage, now—with Peter Richards that, even after four years, a wedding, and four novels, Max still didn’t really understand. A relationship too close to mirroring that of Kat’s newest book.
Whatever.
She shook her head, tired of the old debate.
Peter Richards and his fetishes were none of her business.
But the book was. “It just doesn’t make any sense.” Max couldn’t understand how Kat couldn’t see this. “Especially for some tough-as-nails investigative reporter like Lila who’s used to being on top.”
“Like I said,” Kat told her, throwing her hands up in the air, “you just don’t get it. It’s how she balances the seriousness of her life. She uses it to make the world go away for the space of a scene.”
“And she needs a cat o’ nine for that?”
A wicked gleam sparkled in Kat’s eyes. With a cheeky cock of her head, she said, “You wouldn’t need to ask if you’d ever had someone do that to you.”
Oh, okay, oversharing.
Kat shook her head at her friend’s scoff. “How can you just dismiss the idea outright? You don’t even know what it’s like. And you never will until you try it yourself.”
“Yeah,” she replied, rolling defiant eyes at her friend’s blatant challenge, “I can imagine how I’m supposed to go about doing that.”
Max knew all she needed to know about that kind of thing, thank you very much. Thanks to the wild, and seemingly undying success of Elliette Roberts’s infamous BDSM novel Steele’s Edge, she—and everyone else and their mother, for that matter—had seen and read that porn. Max, seeing as sex and romance were her field and all, had even watched documentaries and read psychological and sociological papers on the topic talking about the trend’s effect on the post-modern, post-feminist, social-justice-warrior-led world. The whole S&M, Master/slave fantasy of it all just felt so male-driven, just more patriarchal, pre-packaged playacting that conformed to and reinforced outdated notions of gender and roles.
She couldn’t believe the book was getting a movie.
It was all just one more way to make the female sexual experience more about performance than pleasure.
And, for all her research—probably because of it—Max just didn’t get the appeal.
“What’s the matter?” Kat grinned. She stood, leaned forward to rest her hands on the edge of Max’s desk , and said, “You afraid?”
———
Well, Max Wells, who’d gone from a lowly grunt intern to the youngest senior editor in the history of Elysia Publishing, had never backed down from anything in her life and she wasn’t about to do so now.
Kat wanted Max to see her world from her perspective. To see what it was really like to bottom in this over-the-top world. Fine! It’d been why, with gritted teeth, Max had let Kat lead her through the motions of applying as a probationary member to the club, creating a profile, filling out endless paperwork, and jumping through every hoop they threw at her.
Seemed like a lot of work for nothing. But, if it proved her point to Kat, Max supposed it would all be worth it in the end. So, even though she felt foolish, Max tugged at the bright, unmistakable, orange plastic bound around her wrist, marking her as a probationary member over the age of twenty-one, and walked through the throng.
Donovan’s was a recently renovated bar turned sleek, chic club not that unlike any of its neighbors in the beach-front district. It played the same throbbing, pulsing techno music in the background that was timed perfectly to the strobe lights blinking across the polished black tiled floor. Black marble counters and tables, and black leather-covered chairs and sofas were carefully arranged around the space, creating a comfortable yet sophisticated atmosphere.
Even its clientèle didn’t seem all that out of the ordinary. Immaculately stylish—all suits and dresses straight from the glossy pages of magazines and the bright spotlights of runways—seemed the standard for the average club-goer.
In fact, the only signs that this wasn’t an ordinary club were the small accoutrements of this dark, deviant world. There was a tall, slender woman talking to an older, silvered gentleman while she clutched a studded leash in her hands. Max’s eyes followed the length of the tether to a small, thin, fragile-looking man—more of a boy, really—who sat silently at her side. By the bar, a wealthy-looking man stood, nursing a drink, with a sweet-faced girl kneeling at his feet, her hands bound behind her back with leather bonds. Max noticed the treacherous little whip at the belted waist of the tense-looking man.
She was out of her depths here, Max suddenly realized. She could feel panic creep and claw up her throat. Nervously, she fiddled with the stray red curls that fell from her tight chignon twist. She ought to leave; screw the dare.
“You look like you could use this,” a man’s gravelly voice purred as a glass appeared beneath her nose from nowhere.
She could smell the sweet, sultry scent of fermented grapes waft up from the glass. It was a good wine, she could tell. And she was loathed to turn it down.
Really, she was.
“Thank you, but I’m not drinking tonight.” She pushed the glass away from her. She’d already made the promise to herself before she came and was resolute about not accepting drinks from strange men. She’d read too many stories about roofies and GHB to ever make that mistake. And, if there was ever a night to keep her head, tonight was it. “If you’ll excuse me.” She turned to leave.
“Let me get you a sparkling water then or one of those exotic fruit drinks they’re so famed for here.” The man sidestepped her. He grinned and narrowed his gaze at her breasts. “Mango peach, I think.”
Charming.
“No,” another man said, coming up behind the first one. “Strawberry raspberry. Something sweet and tart at the same time. Something with,” he said decidedly, “a little bite.” He pushed the other man aside a bit. “Cherry, perhaps.”
“I’m not thirsty,” Max assured both men.
“A dance then. Or dinner, if you’re,” the second man paused, letting his gaze slip south, “hungry.”
“I’m not,” she said in the type of tone she used with her quarreling underlings. It instantly snapped their wandering gazes back up to her eyes. That was better. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, boys.” She swiveled toward the exit.
She bumped into something so hard and solid that, for a moment, she’d thought she might have very dumbly crashed into a wall. But she could feel the heat coming off the obstacle. She jumped as two strong hands gripped her shoulders to steady her only to stay once she’d settled. She rolled her eyes up, wary.
She swallowed hard, closing her gaping lips.
He was the largest man she’d ever seen, both muscle-bound and tall. Unlike the majority of Donovan’s patronage, the gigantic, bald man looked exactly how she thought a sadist should. He wore a black silk shirt paired with tight leather pants and a long Matrix-esque double-breasted jacket. The outfit—very obviously tailored for him—hugged his form adoringly, emphasizing his size and breadth. He grinned, conscious of the picture he made and loving every intimidating moment.
Max, usually the first to cut an arrogant man to the quick, stood silent and stiff, shocked by the strength that emanated from him like tangible waves that struck her, threatening to knock her down.
“And here I was told pixies don’t exist.” His voice was low and slightly, inherently challenging. He raised an eyebrow. “Do I get some sort of prize for finding one? Treasure, or my heart’s desire?” His gaze studied her up and down with blatant and intense interest.
Max cringed, no longer afraid.
It was a bad line. Very bad.
And she didn’t respond well to bad lines; she was in publishing.
She jerked free from his grasp and took a step back, glad to see the other two men had already fled.
Good. Two down.
She glared up at the last man, matching him smirk for smirk. “You’re thinking of genies and leprechauns,” she told him matter-of-factly, placing small, elegant hands on her full, curving hips. “If anything, pixies are more likely to steal from you than grant wishes. Pixies don’t give anything.”
“Is that right?” His gaze narrowed as his smile widened.
“Yeah.” She jutted out her pointed chin defiantly.
He chuckled. She couldn’t believe it. The fucker honest-to-God chuckled.
She was so out of here. She didn’t need this shit. She’d come, she’d seen, and she’d rejected. It was time to go home and call Kat with a big fat I told you so. She shook her head and started to leave.
But, as soon as she’d taken a step away, the man took a step forward, closing the space between them.
She glared at him, but he only grinned. Couldn’t he tell a brush off when he heard one?
He cocked his head thoughtfully. “Let me guess.” His grin was goading and his tone grating. “You’ve been Steeled, right?”
“Excuse me?” she asked, not sure what he meant, but offended at his patronizing tone.
“Steele’s Edge,” he clarified. He leaned down close enough for her to smell the earthy scent of leather and man. “You read the book and came looking for a walk on the wild side?” Each word whispered into her ear felt like a rasp against her senses. “To walk that edge, huh?”
Max scoffed and shook her head. Hardly. “I have not,” Max insisted, “been Steeled.” That poorly written novel tried to eroticize and romanticize violence and abuse against women. Max could barely stand that there were women out there who enjoyed the book, much less that she would be mistaken as one.
“There’s no shame in it.” The man placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Never read the book myself, but whatever gets you wet, I always say.”
She gave an indignant snort. Well, that was crude.
“Hey, if you want to act out any of those Steele’s Edge fantasies with someone, I am more than game.” He let his hand move from her shoulder to her back. “I don’t usually go for those Steeled girls but, for a woman like you,” he said, steering her toward the back of the club with an eager grin, “I’d be willing to play Gregor Steele to your Helene Kensington.”
Twisting away from him, Max shoved him back a few steps. “I don’t want to be anything to your anything.”
“Whoa,” the man said, holding his hands up. “Calm down, pixie girl—”
“Don’t call me that.” Max turned on him, getting in his face.
“Whatever you say, Steele’s Edge—”
“Or that,” she snapped.
“Fine.” Condescendingly, he patted her shoulder. “Why don’t we just calm down?”
Calm down? Calm down! He was using some predator’s training manual passing itself off as erotica as a pick-up line and she was the one who needed to calm down? “Do you honestly think I don’t see what you’re doing?”
The man leaned back a bit, crossing his arms over his chest indulgently. “What am I doing?”
She snorted. “You took one look at me, at this stupid, orange bracelet,” she said, waving her wrist about, “and decided I was some easy mark.” She huffed, crossing her own arms in a defensive stance. “That must make things easy for you, tagging the new and uninitiated so they’re easy to spot. So you can swoop in as soon as they’re in your sights.”
He held up his hands again. “Hey, I’m not about to argue with you the merits and allure of fresh meat—”
“Fresh meat?” Max shook her head. What a colorfully misogynistic description!
“But could you be reading too much into this? Maybe I just saw you from my table and thought you looked beautiful and interesting and perhaps someone I might want to spend some time with.”
Max arched an eyebrow. “Got all that from one look, did you?”
The man just grinned, letting his gaze trace the curves of her body. “Sometimes, one look’s all you need, neon bracelet or not.” He took a step closer. “Now,” he said as he leaned down close as if to share a secret, “tell me, what do you need?”
She rolled her eyes. She needed to go home. “I need to know whether that line ever works on a woman. Please say no.” Or she’d lose all respect for her gender.
He shrugged and gave a small laugh. “Sometimes. Tends to work with people looking to have some fun.” He winked at her. “This is a playhouse, after all.”
“Meaning what?” Max asked. “That if I don’t fall at your feet, I’m not fun?” What an arrogant assumption! “That must work wonders on first-time probies looking to ingratiate themselves in this club, huh? Say yes or be that girl? The un-fun one?”
“Wow, whoa,” the guy said, backing up, “when exactly did I say any of that?”
“You didn’t have to.” Max lay her hands on her hips. She knew how these guys operated. She’d read all that carnivore, alpha male, Red Pill bullshit. “It’s what you meant, isn’t it? It’s my fault things aren’t progressing the way you want, right?”
“Who said anything about fault?”
“It’s classic Pick-Up Artist tactics.” Did he really think they’d work on her? She planted her feet indignantly. “Negging.”
“Negging?”
“Get a girl to doubt herself by wrapping a compliment in an insult.”
“I insulted you?”
Max poked him in the chest, ticking off his offenses with each jab that pushed him half-a-step back and back. “You called me a pixie—some diminutive, pretty thing here to grant your every wish—then I was one of your Steeled girls looking to walk your edge, then I was fresh meat here to lure you in with all my,” she sneered at him, “merits. You don’t think that kind of objectification is insulting?”
“Look,” he said as he grabbed her accusing hand, “I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t touch me!” She tried to tug her hand back, but his grip held firm.
“Fine,” he said in an insultingly soothing tone, slowly—deliberately—letting her hand go in an obvious attempt to show her that her freedom wasn’t really hers, but something that he gave her, “but let’s calm down first.”
She tucked her hand close to her chest, even as she shoved him away with her other. Hard. “Step back and stop telling me to calm down!”
“I just think—maybe—you might be blowing things out of proportion.”
She shoved him back again. “And now you’re gaslighting me.” He was so sure that his version of events were more truthful—more real—than hers. She could not believe this guy’s gall! He was treating this as if it were a perception problem and not a symptom of a systematically sexist imbalance that had been plaguing generations of women for millennia. “Are you clueless or do you just think I am?” She moved to give him one more push, just to make her point.
But he caught her hand again, throwing her off balance before she could make contact. She stumbled. “Look, lady,” he said in a no-nonsense tone when she tried uselessly to tug her hand back, “I don’t appreciate—”
“Let me go,” she demanded.
“Not until you listen,” he barked back.
“Let,” she growled out, trying to pull herself free, “me go.”
“Calm down.”
Max’s head popped up at those words as anger suffused her. With one last unsuccessful tug, she pulled back her other hand and slapped the man across the face.
The man let out a low warning sound and his grip tightened on her hand. “Lady, I swear.” He grunted with tightly choked anger while his other hand clenched in a fist.
What? Straightening her spine, she sneered as fiercely as she could at him. What did he swear?
Ready to spit in his face, Max heard a cool, calm, yet unbendingly authoritative voice say from behind her, “Is there a problem here?”
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