Truth Revealed (Confession Duet Book 2) Read online

  My eyebrow quirks. “In three days. Okay, so a member says ‘Hey, I have this person I will vouch for who wants to join.’ The person shows up and fills out an application, and…?”

  “And after leaving their $1000 deposit, we run the background check. If it comes back all clear, then we set up their first appointment with our psychologist,” he finishes.

  “Who they see once a week for a month. And then they’re a full-blown member?” I ask.

  “No. There’s a six-month probationary period. During that six months, depending on their level of experience, they have to go through our program. There are tests they can take—placement tests, if you will—in order to skip ahead in the program, but we are very strict about who can use and do what inside the club. For example, we aren’t going to let anyone who has never picked up a bullwhip use one on another person. They must be thoroughly and properly trained to use any equipment or tools,” he explains.

  “How do you keep up with who can do what?” I ask, trying to wrap my head around it.

  “Each playroom has it’s own theme, scene, equipment, etc., and each one has a card reader by the doorway. Every Dominant member has a badge they scan in order to enter the room. If they have passed the test for the equipment inside that room, the light turns green, and if not, red. We have security to ensure people go only where they’re supposed to. If they break any type of rule during their probationary period, they’re out.”

  “Submissives don’t have badges?” My brow furrows.

  “A submissive wouldn’t be using the equipment. If a couple comes who are switches, then both parties must have badges. But someone who identifies only as a submissive, who would not be implementing any of the devices, does not need to go through that training process. They do, however, have the option to go through a different training program, one that teaches them the… art of submission, if you will,” he almost purrs, and images fast-forward through my mind of me as a student of submission, with Seven as my teacher.

  My nipples tighten behind the soft fabric of my T-shirt. I cross and uncross my dark gray legging-covered legs, trying to soothe the throbbing that’s suddenly started there. I take a sip of my wine, my mouth parched. When I gain some composure, which isn’t easy under the weighted stare Seven is watching me with, only one word is able to sneak past my lips on an exhale. “Interesting.”

  They’re mostly hidden, but the look in his eyes gives me the impression he’s smirking, even though I can’t see his mouth. The leather of his mask doesn’t cover it, but the way he has the fabric adjusted, his lips sit in the shadow cast from the piece over his nose. With the dim lighting in the club, it’s impossible for me to make out the shape of his lips.

  A small green light above one of the doorways behind Seven comes on, and he follows my eyes, looking over his shoulder. “Ah, little one. Looks like a demonstration is about to begin. Shall we?”

  His endearment warms my insides, catching me off-guard. Usually I hate when people call me anything but my name, but for some reason, his has a different effect on me.

  I take a deep breath and shake off the feeling. “Let’s do this.”

  TWO DAYS HAVE passed since my night at Club Alias. Tomorrow, if Seven answered honestly, would be the one day in three months someone could apply for a membership. I’ve mulled over it constantly, hardly able to concentrate on my word count, thinking about the way he seemed to be telling me what to do instead of just answering a random question.

  I sign on to my Facebook and send Seven a message.

  Me: I was wondering…

  Seven: Yes?

  Me: We’ve known each other for a little over a year now.

  Seven: -_-

  Me: Sorry. I don’t really know how to ask this.

  Seven: You’ve never had trouble asking questions before. What’s up?

  Me: Well, you said a person who wants to apply for membership must know someone who is already a member, and they have to vouch for them.

  Seven: Correct.

  Me: Well… you’re kinda the only person I know who is a member.

  There’s a long pause before the three dots begin to dance on the screen, indicating he’s typing his reply. I hold my breath, waiting to see what he says.

  Seven: Are you saying you want to apply, V? I’d be your sponsor in a heartbeat. But, I’ve made you aware of the fees, and also the process.

  I bite my lip, second-guessing my decision. The fee isn’t the problem. Hitting all those best-seller lists, I sold countless books, and all the royalties sit in my savings account. I still live in the same small town I grew up in outside Ft. Vanter, which still doesn’t have much to do, nothing really to spend my money on. I’m a recluse, so I don’t waste my wealth traveling anywhere. I mostly use it to spoil my parents and big brother.

  The only thing holding me back is the therapist situation. I’m not much of a talker, especially about the deep subjects a psychologist would want to touch on while considering me as a prospect in a BDSM club. I don’t know why I am the way I am, have the cravings I crave. One would think, because of what happened to me, I would never want someone controlling me, taking away my free will ever again.

  I’ve always thought it might do me some good to talk about these things with a professional, but if I think about it too deeply, actually opening up and revealing all, I start to panic, anxiety overtaking me until I can’t even breathe. My old therapist, I told her I had been sexually assaulted, but I never mentioned I was married before. I never said Corbin’s name once. She didn’t even know he existed. When she prescribed me the pills when I had my breakdown, I told her it was the anniversary of my assault. But what Seven had said at the club “He can tell within the first month whether or not a person is hiding anything,” it made me think if I went through with this, I wouldn’t be able to keep that part of my life to myself.

  But the prospect of finally gaining some release…. God, even the thought of experiencing some of what my fictional subs felt during a scene, being able to let go of all control, handing over all that power to someone I truly trust and know will not hurt me, it’s enough to make my final decision.

  Me: Yes, I want to apply.

  “SOOO… THERE’S A situation.”

  I glance up from my computer, my gaze landing on Seth’s fidgeting form in the doorway to my office inside the club. I sit back in my leather chair, taking a deep breath to prepare myself. This “situation” could only be about one person, because Seth is not a fidgeter.

  “I’m just going to come out and say it. But you’re not allowed to try to throttle me again.” He looks at me expectantly, and I nod once. “V is applying for a club membership. She contacted me on Messenger and asked if I would be her sponsor.”

  With my feet planted on the floor beneath my desk, I swing my office chair back and forth a few times, trying to assess my feelings. If I were honest with myself, I would admit that when I was answering Vi’s questions, I was really giving her all the information she needed in order to join the club herself, exact step-by-step directions.

  “Okay. Here’s what’s going to happen,” I say with finality. There will be no room for discussion. “I’m going to make another Facebook account with your name. I will send her a friend request from it, stating that the other account got reported and I’m in Facebook jail. From here on out, you have no communication with her. Use the Post Privacy setting to block her from seeing new posts.”

  He looks up to the ceiling and blows out a lungful of air before meeting my eyes once again. “Agreed. But just…” He runs his hand down his face in frustration, clearly loyal to his comrade, but also wanting to be loyal to his friendship with Vi. I lift an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue. “Just don’t use this as an opportunity to seek revenge for what she did a decade ago. I’m telling you, she’s got something going on with her. Thinking about what you told me long ago, about how she cheated on you while you were deployed and y’all got divorced… she doesn’t match the girl I’ve
known for the past year.”

  “Yeah, well, she had me fooled too,” I reply bitterly.

  “Corb, people make mistak—”

  “I will not use this as an opportunity for revenge. You have my word. But no one touches her but me.” I cut him off.

  He sighs. “Okay, bro.” He turns in the doorway, getting ready to leave, but says over his shoulder, “You might want to make that new profile now. She’s waiting on a response about Walker.”

  “On it.” I sit up in my chair and wiggle my mouse to wake the computer back up. “What was her last question exactly, so I can reply accordingly?”

  “I believe it was ‘So how do I get an appointment with the shrink so he can tell me I’m just the right amount of fucked-up to hang with the cool kids?’” He lets out a chuckle, and my eye twitches at his obvious fondness for my wife.

  Ex-wife.

  “Got it,” I growl, and he takes that as his cue to exit.

  I make quick work of creating a new profile, saving a few pictures off Seth’s real profile for his Seven persona, and uploading them to my fake one. I feel no guilt for deceiving Vivian, but I also have no ill intentions. Honestly, I don’t know why I’m doing all this. I guess just the thought of anyone else teaching her about our lifestyle—the very lifestyle I had suppressed for her when we were together—makes me crazy.

  When everything is in place, I find Vi’s profile in Seth’s list of friends and send her a request. In no time, she accepts, and a chat window appears at the bottom of my screen before I even have a chance to message her myself.

  VB: New account?

  Me: Yeah, someone must’ve got the red-ass and reported one of my pics. That account is in FB jail for a month -_-

  VB: Well that sucks.

  Me: It’s ok. Perfect excuse to take a break from social media, but I didn’t want to leave you hanging.

  VB: I appreciate it. Soooo…

  Me: One sec, and let me look at the schedule.

  I’m surprised to find my heart is thumping inside my chest, the same way it was a couple of days ago when I was actually in Vi’s presence. It’d taken me a few minutes to even speak when I first approached her. And when she turned around, dropped her purse, and kneeled before me to pick everything up off the ground, my mind had gone blank. When I slip into my mask, one similar to but not exactly matching Seth’s, I become Sarge, and everything but my Dominant persona disappears. And with her on her knees, unconsciously bowing her head to look away from my eyes, my cock had instantly hardened at the perfection of the situation. She had accidentally greeted me the way a sub would properly greet her Dom before a scene.

  I log in to Walker’s scheduling program and see he has a session available for tomorrow.

  Me: I know it’s short notice, but maybe since you work from home, this will work. Doc has an appointment available tomorrow morning at 10 if you want it.

  VB: I’ll take it.

  Me: OK. I’ll put you in.

  I’m finishing out a mission tonight, one the team and I have been working on for nearly four months. Thank God for that, or I would’ve been useless the next month, while monitoring Vi’s therapy sessions.

  VB: Thanks, Seven. When should I come by to fill out the application and leave my deposit?

  Me: If you want to just do that at the appointment tomorrow, I will give Doc everything you need. I won’t be at the club tonight.

  VB: Oh… all right.

  It would be impossible to tell over the typed-out message, but the way I just read that in my head, it’s as if she’s disappointed. Because she’s unable to see Seth… or me? I shake off the thought, telling myself to interrogate Seth later.

  Me: Talk to you later, baby girl.

  I stop, staring at my screen, my fingers hovering over the Enter button. Acid rises in my throat. The endearment flowed out so easily, without any thought behind it, as if no time has passed at all. I caught myself before I sent it, and knowing it would be a bad idea to give even the smallest hint of who I really am, I tap Delete until the last two words in the message disappear.

  Me: Talk to you later, V :)

  And I close out my browser.

  I SIT IN the shadows next to the hot tub, not ten feet away from the Olympic-sized indoor pool. It’s pitch-black outside, and the only lights on in the building come from inside the pool and the glowing Exit sign above the door in the back, near the locker room. Bleachers line the two longer walls of the rectangular-shaped area, and the only thing between me and the enemy is the diving board structure.

  Brock Williams, the Ivy League student known previously by all his classmates as the head of the swim team, had gotten drunk one night and raped and murdered an unconscious girl at a frat party. Being the rich little prick he is, with the help of Daddy’s money and the best lawyers they could buy, the fuckstick spent only three months in jail.

  How, you might ask? “There’s no way of knowing if the girl wasn’t already dead when he had sexually assaulted her.” Yep, the lawyers had ingeniously convinced Brock that it would be much better to be labeled a necrophiliac than a rapist-slash-murderer. And since Brock had no prior record and was twenty years old, the judge went along with it. Yes, the victim’s blood alcohol level was astronomical, but witnesses said they saw her—albeit drunkenly—pushing away the jock earlier in the night. The more they testified, the clearer it became—to everyone but the jury, apparently—that Brock had finally taken advantage of the girl when she’d passed out in a room at the frat house. Whether her death was an accident or not became a moot point when the defendant showed absolutely no remorse for any of his actions. What put the final nail in his coffin, was when he was released from jail, his final words to the press were “Three months in there was a steep rate for fifteen minutes of action.”

  The victim’s parents, not only heartbroken from losing their only daughter, were now outraged. Her murderer had essentially just said their baby was no better than an expensive prostitute. And that’s when Imperium Security stepped in. Her father was all too willing to hand over the reins of taking care of the smug little shit, as well as half our fee for doing all the dirty work.

  So for the past four months since he’s been out of jail, we’ve been laying low, watching, taking note of his every move, waiting for him to establish a routine. For the past six weeks, he’s been coming to the pool after hours five days a week to train, even though the National Swimming Association banned him for life. Turns out one of his old frat buddies’ parents owns the place, and gave him a key so he could come swim in peace—as if the fucker deserves it.

  Seeing the two hours he always spends in the pool is almost up, I center myself, visualizing one last time all I need to do in order to make his demise look like an accident.

  Mere minutes later, as I exit the building, I only look back once to see Brock’s body floating near the edge of the pool, redness emerging from the top of his skull as if he’d miscalculated his strokes and ran into the cement himself.

  I send a text, Done, and before I even make it to my truck half a mile from the scene of Brocky-poo’s little accident, I receive a notification that the other half of our fee has been paid.

  Imperium Security Job #27: Closed.

  I WOKE UP this morning to a message from Seven, giving me the address of Dr. Lee Walker’s practice. I’d gotten up, showered, and readied myself for the day, but skipped my usual breakfast of a bowl of oatmeal and a mug of sugar disguised as coffee. My gut was nervous enough. No need to add caffeine to the mix. The results wouldn’t have been pretty.

  So here I sit, in a waiting room like all other waiting rooms, nervously glancing at my phone every few seconds until it’s time for my appointment. I’d filled out the normal patient information paperwork when I first arrived here, figuring Dr. Walker has the application for club membership inside his actual office. It makes me wonder if his receptionists know he’s part of a team who runs a BDSM club.

  Finally the door opens, and a short, plump, middl
e-aged man in business casual steps out and I get to my feet. Just as I’m about to reach my hand out to shake his and introduce myself, he turns in the doorway, saying goodbye to a person coming up behind him. When he moves out of the way and swiftly leaves out the front, my eyes return to the figure now taking up the entire door of the office. They travel from the nice brown leather shoes, up the long legs encased in khaki slacks, higher over the perfectly fitted crisp white button-up, and land on brilliant blue eyes. Taking in the rest of his face, I note the well-groomed beard, and the purposely-disheveled dark hair atop a head that nearly reaches the top of the doorframe.

  “Ms. Lowe?”

  The name coming from him jerks me out of my ogling. “Brown. Vivian Brown. Lowe is just my pen name. Sorry, Seven set the appointment up for me, and he only knows me by that name.”

  He gives me an unreadable look, but says, “Ah, I understand. Right this way, please.” He gestures inside his office, and I wonder how he expects me to enter with him taking up the whole doorway. He then moves out of the way so I can get inside, pulling the door shut behind him as I take a seat on the brown leather sofa. I glance around quickly, taking in the masculine but comfortable room. There is an entire wall of floor-to-ceiling bookcases over to my left, and in front of it is a massive wooden desk with a cushioned rolling chair behind it. It sits atop an ornate rug, but the rest of the flooring is dark gray wood-grain laminate.

  Dr. Walker takes a seat in the matching brown chair in front of me, grabbing a clipboard off a small, round, glass side table next to him before handing it to me. “Seven dropped these off for you last night. You can fill them out before you leave the office, but if you look at the one I’ve put on top there, I need you to go ahead and sign that, if you will. They didn’t give it to you at the front, because it’s only for my Alias clients—which they know nothing about, by the way. So please, do not feel uncomfortable when you come, because they do not know you are any different from any of my other patients.”