“Crisis Intervention, this is Carrie. How may I help you?” I chirp into my headset. I truly love my job, working for a team that assists troubled teens who feel this moment could be the end. Not many have the patience it takes to exude the calmness and control necessary when a call comes through our line, but having spent years in college obtaining undergraduate and graduate degrees in Social Work, I’m built for this shit. As I proceed to take the call, talking a fourteen-year-old girl off the proverbial ledge, my heart soars knowing that my passion for helping the youth of the community actually makes an impact. Not to toot my own horn, but I know I have a good heart, one of the best out there probably. And these kids, they sense that.
I do this job because it gives me the warm and fuzzies inside. It doesn’t pay much, but with the last name Drazen, I can afford to take a job for the love of it and not for the money. And because it is part-time, I’m able to dedicate the rest of my free time to other worthy causes, whether it’s with my bank account or hours out of my day.
It also allows me to lead quite the social life. I am certainly not much of a drinker, but finding ways to make time for my best friend, Jennifer, quite often leads me to places where the liquor is flowing freely. Sometimes it’s a house party, sometimes a sports bar near my neighborhood. But as single ladies at the age of thirty-four, we tired of the club scene long ago; however, I do miss the breed of well-dressed alpha male that frequents the clubs of downtown Houston.
It’s not that I don’t date, I do. It’s just that after what happened when I tried my hand at submission three years ago, I don’t yet have the nerve to go that route again. For me, the bad apple really did spoil the bunch. After my then dominant, Troy Emerson, methodically sliced me down my chest and abdomen with a steak knife, I did not hesitate to shut my online profile down. I was convinced using a BDSM social networking site would be perfect for someone like me who was new to this world of pain and pleasure and everything it had to offer. Because of the stigma of the lifestyle, I was shy, and if I’m honest, a bit embarrassed, and felt that hiding behind my laptop to browse the community was the safest and easiest way to slowly dip my toe in the water. Things with Troy obviously didn’t last long, and to this day, he is still serving time on his fifteen-year sentence.
But I’m a fighter and always have been. Growing up in a large family should have afforded me the opportunity to maintain invisibility, but daddy had other plans for me. I was fortunate he never put his hands on me, but the looks he would send my way would sprout goosebumps all over my body. That’s how I ended up in Houston. I had to get away and make my own life for myself away from my father’s lingering gazes and borderline inappropriate remarks. Something is not right with that man; I could feel it. But I can gladly say that since my departure, he has not once tried to contact me, except when it came to handing over my trust fund. I hated taking his money, but he insisted saying no Drazen should live without means, so I use much of it to fund local, national, and even global charities dedicated to equality for various marginalized groups.
I decide to text Jennifer on my lunch break to see what tonight’s plan is. She’s the planner, I’m the buyer.
C: Hey girl, what’s up for tonight?
She promptly messages me back, signaling she must not be busy at work either.
J: So, I was thinking…I heard about this new place called Park 59. It’s a little more upscale than what we normally get into, but I need a change of pace. I think it is close to the Galleria, a lounge of sorts. Are you up for it?
C: You know what? Yeah, I am up for it. Maybe we’ll meet some cute guys. It’s been awhile… And BOB just isn’t cutting it for me these days!
J: Ok look, I’m off at 8 today. I’ll run home and grab my stuff then come to your place. We can get ready there and take an Uber.
C: Cool beans!
I finish eating my lunch of a sandwich and some fruit when I get this pang in my chest. Telling Jennifer about how lacking my sex life is just reminds me of this missing puzzle piece I am unable to find. More specifically, rediscovering my submission. I’ve tried the nice guys. Those with proper manners who are just fine with letting a woman get her way all the time. Personally, my attention span for those types of relationships is that of a goldfish. The past few months, I’ve been craving the touch and command of the type of man that will put me in my place, in the best of ways. Hey, I may be a feminist, but there’s something about a man who shows initiative and takes charge, going after what he wants with no hesitation. Hesitation in my mind equates to doubt, and we can’t have a man doubting where his interests lie, now can we?
At four o’clock, my shift ends, and I head home. In my head, I’m mentally rummaging through my insanely large closet, trying to figure out if I actually have anything to wear to this lounge. When it comes to fashion, I’m a pretty simple woman. I wear heels if I have to and cocktail dresses only when necessary. Formal almost never happens. Then I remember my go to little black dress. All women have one LBD. That one default dress that you can wear to almost any event that calls for something a bit more than casual. Pair that with these red, strappy heels that I recently bought from this boutique in Midtown, and my favorite Givenchy clutch and diamond-studded earrings, and I think we have a winner.
As I pull into the parking garage of the premium loft building that I call home in downtown Houston, and kill the engine, I spot an unfamiliar car. It’s an Audi A6, black and sleek with what look to be custom wheels. The interior is a grey leather, but what catches my eye the most is the man stepping out of the driver’s side door. My jaw drops as a tall, sexy-as-hell, brown-skinned bald man climbs out from his seated position. He sports a trimmed goatee and a smile with beautifully gleaming white teeth. My attempts to avert my gaze and avoid getting caught looking fail, and our eyes lock. He has these piercing, coffee bean-colored eyes that send a shiver down my spine, and I feel my pale skin turn as red as my hair. This is one of those moments I wished I’d opted for tinted windows when I purchased this car.
I fumble and accidentally bump the automatic window button. The window recedes slightly, just enough for him to see some of my embarrassingly red face. This god of a man smirks at seeing my mouth still standing wide open, gawking at his strong form in the space two cars down. As if I couldn’t feel even more flustered, he decides to stroll in my direction, still holding my gaze. As he approaches my car, I figure I might as well go ahead and step out. With the car turned off, it would warm up quick without the air conditioning running, and on top of the shame, I refuse to also be sweating buckets in this sweltering Houston heat.
“Hi,” I let out, barely above a whisper. What the fuck? I am Carrie fucking Drazen, badass extraordinaire, so to be so caught off guard by a man that my mind is turned to goop, rendering me nearly speechless, well that just doesn’t happen.
He chuckles, a twinkle in his eye. Such arrogance. He obviously sees right through me, as if the eyes truly are the windows to the soul, and mine are wide the fuck open.
“Well hello there. I’m Malakai.” Then as he goes to shake my hand, and our skin makes contact, that swagger morphs into something fiery. To match that look in his eye, I feel an electric spark shoot up my arm. I peer through chocolate-colored orbs and feel like I’m seeing something for the first time. Something I haven’t seen or wanted to see in years. The air of pure, indulgent dominance. This man. Between his tall stature, broad shoulders, strapping arms and soulful gaze, he steals the air from my lungs. I am racking my brain, trying to remember the last time I met a man so captivating. I come up empty. A sound breaks my reverie, and I shake my head to regain focus.
“I’m sorry, what?” I am so mesmerized I’m not even paying attention to what he’d just asked me. Silly libido.
“I asked your name,” he replies, imploring me to engage in some type of conversation with him.
“Oh-oh. I apologize. My name is Carrie. I was thinking you must be new to the building, because I’ve never seen you around before. And I promise spacing out is not my thing.”
“First, I am new to the building. Second, I don’t mind spacing out, as long as it is not during conversation.” And the definitive manner in which he speaks those words sends more shudders down my arms. I know exactly what type of “spacing out” he was referring to, and for the first time in years, I entertain the idea of drawing on that submissive side I’d locked away. It is at this moment that I follow his gaze, noticing I have my hand resting lightly around my throat. I recall how breath play would take me straight into subspace, a feeling akin to floating, but I also remember how he-who-shall-not-be-named turned something beautiful into a vicious assault. That incident three years ago changed my entire perspective on the lifestyle and sent me back into the vanilla dating world. Nowadays, I mostly rely on fresh batteries for the majority of my orgasms.
“Welcome to the building, Malakai. I hope you love it here. I have lived here about 4 years and absolutely adore my floor plan. And the management and staff are great. Maintenance is quick, too, usually fixing things the same day you report them. They have mixers once a month, but I don’t always go. Maybe I will see you at one some time.” At this point I am rambling, my mouth moving at lightning speed to keep pace with my thoughts. Malakai has me so discombobulated, and it’s such a foreign feeling, that my reaction is not that of my normal character. Usually, I’m a very confident person, moving through life without hesitation.
“Tell me, Carrie, what do you do when you choose to skip these mixers?” His voice is smooth like molasses, coating my mind with wonderfully dirty thoughts that lead to dark places filled with bondage ties and crops, things that would send me in a spin of orgasms.
“Well, um, I usually cause trouble with my best friend Jennifer. She is my partner in crime, my bestie. As a matter of fact, tonight is one of those nights. She told me about this new place by the Galleria called Park 59. It’s not normally our scene, but she wanted to try something new, so I agreed. Have you heard of it? She said it is really swanky.” The craziness in my head is starting to calm as I talk about one of the most important people in my life. She was there for me when everything with Troy went down, and has been a beacon of light to me, practically like a sister since I left my own family behind years ago.
“Park 59, huh?” Malakai chimes in. “I believe I have heard of it. So that’s your plan tonight? Be safe, Carrie.” And he says it with this air of concern that says he cares, which is silly, because we literally just met. It feels right, though.
“Of course, I will.” And with that we part ways as he heads in the direction of the office, and I enter the elevator to head up to my apartment.