“Oh my God.” Ricky’s voice was approaching squeak territory as he followed Miles and me through Cobalt. “Are those . . . Nazis?”
He was pointing at the far end of the room. Unlike Riddle, Cobalt was just one long, L-shaped space with different stations. The name of each station was painted on the wall above it, along with dirty, comic-book-style illustrations. There was Spank Central, Bondage Boudoir, Wax Warehouse, Interrogation Alley . . .
Over by Interrogation Alley, a man wearing a very authentic-looking Nazi uniform—complete with swastika armband—stood on a plastic sheet, staring at a red Nazi flag on the wall. There was a bucket beside him, and a woman in uniform with a matching swastika armband circled him with a riding crop.
My eyebrows shot up. “Uh, yes. That is some . . . Nazi role-play.”
“Is that legal?” Ricky couldn’t tear his gaze away.
“Sure.” Miles led the way toward the other end of the L. “Just maybe not very tasteful in a public space.”
“We used to see the weirdest shit here,” I told Ricky. “Miles, were you there for the John and Yoko scene?”
“John and Yoko?” Miles frowned.
“That must have been Kamen.”
“That certainly wasn’t me. But you and I watched the human chess pieces.” Miles headed for the ancient leather sofa in the social area.
“Don’t you want to see what the bucket’s for?” I asked.
“Not particularly. I’d like to sit down and scope out who’s here.”
“Holy cow!” Ricky said. “Look!”
I turned to him. “I’m really hoping to get laid here tonight, and your Anastasia Steele act is not helping.”
“I just . . . What is that?” He pointed to a man wearing a police jacket who carried a thick, menacing-looking whip, about three feet long.
“I think that’s a sjambok. Miles would know more, but they’re . . . Hey, Miles?” I caught up with him and tugged his sleeve. “Is a sjambok made out of hippo or buffalo or something?”
“Traditionally hippo or rhino. But now mostly plastic.” Miles glanced back at Ricky. “Believe me, you’re not ready for one.”
Ricky looked horrified. “I wasn’t saying I wanted to try it! I just wondered what it was.”
I put an arm around him. “Did you ever read the Roald Dahl story about the elephant with his insatiable curiosity? And all his relatives spanked him for asking too many questions, and then he was eaten by a crocodile?”
“He was not eaten by a crocodile.” Miles sat stiffly on the couch, flinching slightly. Still sore from his hot night with the snack dom, apparently. “The crocodile pulls his nose, and that’s how he gets a trunk. And that’s not Roald Dahl; that’s Rudyard Kipling.”
“Whatever. I only read it for the spanking.”
I didn’t sit right away. I didn’t trust the furniture here. It felt like there was a fine layer of grime on everything. Plus, Nazis.
I was so glad Gould wasn’t here.
“Hey, can I ask you something?” Ricky leaned closer to me.
“Go for it.” I slowly sat beside Miles, my nose wrinkling as the ragged leather creaked under me.
“You know when Hal, um . . . died?”
“I vaguely recall.”
“Like, how often do you think that happens in BDSM? That someone dies, I mean. Like, how many people a year, or what are the odds or whatever?”
“I have no idea,” I said shortly.
Miles spoke more gently. “Depends on how you play.”
“Yeah.” I leaned back, spreading my arms over the tops of the cushions, ignoring the stickiness. “If you’re into the kind of stuff Miles likes, you’re lucky if you survive a night.”
“What kind of stuff?” Ricky sounded like a little kid pressing for a scary campfire story.
“We’ll tell you when you’re older.” Miles scanned the place. “No Kamen’s mom so far. That’s a plus.”
“Ooh!” Ricky clapped his hands. “Are you guys gonna invite her to join the Subs Club?”
“Uh . . .” Miles looked at me. “Probably not.”
“That would be so awkward,” I agreed.
“The club’s such a great idea,” Ricky gushed. “I love it. I really want to contribute some reviews. I just have to find guys to play with first.”
“Slow down there, Tiger.” I tugged his wrist until he sat beside me. “Someday, you can make poor choices with lots of strange men and then write about it on the internet. For now, let’s concentrate on finding you someone safe and awesome to mentor you.”
“But it’s crazy!” Ricky went on. “It’s like, I’ve wanted to get into this stuff for years, but now I’m like, ‘What if I die?’”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re not going to die.”
“Yeah, that’s, like, why I’m glad you started the club. It makes me feel safer.” Ricky had gotten distracted watching one of the Nazis carry a second bucket into the scene area. Water sloshed over the bucket’s rim as the Nazi walked. “What’s that water for?”
“Uh . . . not sure,” I said.
A guy in a leather vest stumbled past us, slurring the song “Friday.” I looked around to see where the DMs were, but nobody seemed to pay him any mind. So Cobalt would let a drunk guy in, and Riddle wouldn’t kick a murderer out. I was starting to get seriously disenchanted with the club scene. But then, how many times had I played drunk at the leather bar years ago? When had I become such a mom?
The bucket of water turned out to be for a Nazi waterboarding scene. Ricky watched, enthralled. Even Miles stood to get a better look. Waterboarding was probably right up Miles’s alley. I tried to watch, but as the woman put a hood over the man’s head, I started to feel queasy. And when she dunked his head into the bucket, my own lungs went tight.
“I’m not gonna watch,” I told Miles. “I’ll be right over there.” I motioned to the other side of the L and headed off to sit as far from the waterboarding as possible.
The toxicology report had showed amyl nitrite in Hal’s bloodstream. Poppers were something I’d outgrown a couple of years before, but Hal had remained a fan. A lot of the victim-blaming morons had used that against Hal. He shouldn’t have been playing if he was drugged. Others cited the inherent danger in edge play—apparently when Hal signed on for a breath-play scene, he’d agreed to the risks, so it was his fault he was dead.
The way I understood it, Hal had been tied faceup on the bench in Tranquility. He’d been gagged, but Bill had left one of Hal’s arms free so Hal could safe signal. He’d tied a thin rope around Hal’s neck, and was using it to choke Hal as he jacked him off. Cinnamon had been on the other side of the room, waiting for her handler to return. The sole witness to Hal and Bill’s scene, she had testified in court that she never saw Hal struggle or signal. But partway into the scene, Bill had left the room. Had left Hal tied up alone. Any top with half a brain knew better than that.
I sat on a metal chair, clenching and unclenching my fists, digging my nails into my palms to keep myself grounded in the present. A voice behind me said, “Hey, hon.”
I turned. Kamen’s mom stood there in a midnight-blue corset with silver stars on it. Black ruffled bloomers and fishnet stockings, stiletto boots. Her dyed blond hair was piled high on her head, and her face was coated in makeup. When I’d first met Mrs. Pell, I’d thought she was the ultimate dominatrix stereotype, but now I was convinced she was one of a kind. Like her son, she wasn’t the brightest bulb in the sconce, but she was a lot of fun. If she hadn’t been my friend’s mom, I’d probably have enjoyed hanging out with her. But if seeing her in a BDSM club was weird for me, I could only imagine how weird it must be for Kamen.
“Hey, Mrs. P.” I tried to pull myself together, but I was still shaking.
“Where’s your crew?” She had a funny, strained-sounding voice, like she was always in the process of trying to lift something heavy.
“Miles is watching the Nazi waterboarding. And Kamen and Gould couldn’t make it.”
She put a hand on my shoulder. Her nails were bright-blue talons. “Is my boy doing okay?”
“He is. We’re looking after him.”
She smiled. Her teeth were blindingly white, like Kamen’s. “I know you are, honey. I appreciate it. Tell him hi for me. Tell him to call me once in a while.”
“Will do.”
“You and Gouldie enjoying the slow cooker?”
“Oh my God. We make so much barbeque chicken.”
She grinned again. “You’re so sweet, David.” She cocked her head, studying me more closely. “You okay, babe?”
“Oh, yeah.” I glanced toward the bend in the L. “I just wasn’t into the waterboarding.”
“I know, honey. Makes me think about Guantanamo. Not my thing.”
I almost asked what her thing was, but decided I never wanted to know.
“It’s hard for me to watch stuff with breath control, after Hal,” I confessed.
“Ohhh.” She clucked softly, then came around the chair and crouched beside me. “Wasn’t that just horrible? Kamen still has nightmares about it.”
I looked at her, surprised. “He does? He hasn’t said anything.”
She patted my knee. “Well, I don’t think he likes anyone to know how much it shook him up. Such a sad thing. But, you know, this is a dangerous game. No matter how carefully we play it.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. I was so fucking sick of people making it sound like Hal’s death was inevitable. It would never have happened if Bill hadn’t left Hal alone with a fucking rope around his neck. There were ways to be kinky without killing someone. There were ways to play hard without dying.
I’d seen Bill that night. After the ambulance crew took Hal away. After they’d said I couldn’t ride with him, and I’d told GK I had to get to the hospital. He’d said I wasn’t in any state to drive, and that there was no point anyway. I hadn’t understood at first, because I’d thought the ambulance was taking Hal to the hospital to save him.
I’d seen Bill crying. On his knees, elbows propped on the padded bench, sobbing into his hands. I think I knew then. But I hadn’t been able to say it to myself.
“Well, hey.” Mrs. Pell stroked my hair back from my forehead. “If you ever need to talk, I’m happy to listen.”
I tried to smile. “Thanks.” I stood. “I guess I’d better, um . . .”
Be anywhere but here.
I said good-bye to her and went to get Miles and Ricky.
“Hey,” Gould said from my doorway. “You’re still up.”
It was two in the morning, and I was lying on my bed. I’d opened and shut all my desk drawers loudly when I’d heard him get up to use the bathroom, hoping he’d take the hint and come in.
“Working on a post for the site,” I lied.
I wished I could tell Gould about the apology to D. Wished I could have him read it over for me. But for some reason, I wanted to keep D a secret for the time being. I rolled from my stomach onto my side as he came over and sat on the bed.
I traced the plaid on his pajama pants. “Do you, um . . . Is it ever hard for you, when you’re subbing, to, like . . . take a dom seriously? Like, if their rules seem really arbitrary, do you just want to not obey them?”
“Hmm. Even if I’m not crazy about what someone’s telling me to do, I like to see if I can do it. And I like to see where they’re going with it.”
“I know.” I rested my chin on his thigh. “I’m asking the wrong person. You’re, like, supersub.”
“No . . .” But it was a halfhearted no. He knew he was perfect—quiet and obedient and thoughtful. He wouldn’t even have needed to be transformed through D’s tutelage. “I’m not like you. I don’t fight. But I’m still more . . . careful now.”
“Me too.” I glanced at my Warwick Rowers wall calendar and wished I could bang November. “Do you think we’re ruining the spontaneity or whatever of what we do? Making it a safety school special, like Miles said?”
“Maybe a little. But I think we’re doing a good thing.”
I stretched. “I don’t even know what I’m looking for anymore. It’s like, I want someone to take control, but I don’t want to have to give up control. So maybe I want someone to force me to give it up. But also I don’t want anyone to force me to do anything. Ever.” I groaned and went limp.
Gould laughed softly. “You’re a mess.”
“I know! Fix me.”
He pulled me up until I was sitting and hugged me. I liked the feeling of being trapped against him. We were almost the same size. He was just a little taller and rounder, which made him perfect to hug. He scrubbed my back with his fingertips and grunted as I squeezed him. My cock was still kind of hard from thinking about D while I wrote my apology, and I could tell he noticed.
“I’m just happy to see you,” I told him.
He laughed, his breath warm against my hair.
“There was this waterboarding scene at Cobalt tonight, and I couldn’t even watch it . . .” My throat was too tight to continue.
He was quiet for a moment. “I know.”
Suddenly I ached. I didn’t want to be alone. It felt more difficult, the older I got, to connect with others. People didn’t seem as wonderful and amazing and unique as they had when I was in college. And being around the kind of people who didn’t seem to care who I was or what I wanted out of life, like my coworkers, made me feel lonelier than actually being alone. But Gould always made me feel valued. Necessary.
I pressed my hips closer to his and felt his dick stiffening too. “Hmmm.” I glanced at him questioningly.
We used to do it, occasionally—jerk each other off. Then we’d stopped when he’d officially gotten together with Hal. It wasn’t like we wanted to be anything more than friends, but we loved each other so much, and sometimes I wished we could fool around a little without it getting complicated. I placed a hand on his thigh with exaggerated casualness, like he was my poodle-skirted date at a fifties’ drive-in.
He stared at my hand. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. Do you?”
“Right now I do.”
“But afterward . . .”
“Yeah.” Touching each other’s dicks definitely did something weird to our friendship. And the friendship mattered a lot more than my hard-on.
“How about this?” he asked. I let him push me down on the mattress. He rolled on top of me, crushing me for a minute, and then he was on my other side, one arm slung over me. He gave me an affectionate kiss on the side of the neck, and I snuggled closer to him. “A bed party.”
I smiled. I used to host bed parties sometimes when the whole group was over, insisting that Miles, Gould, Kamen, Hal, and I all pile on my bed so we could lie there and talk. It had been a long time since the last bed party.
He stroked my ribs, and I closed my eyes. “Too tired to party,” I murmured.
“Then just sleep.”
I woke up again at 5 a.m. to find Gould gone and my apology unfinished. I lay there a long time, not even sure what I was thinking about. Just drifting.