Chapter 53

“You’re talking, but I’m not sure I understand what you’re trying to tell me,” James Said “Have you ever been with subs who top from the bottom? And I don’t mean purposefully manipulative.”

Mikael stressed that point.

James was slightly surprised by the question, but nodded. “I have. Though I don’t let them do it for long.”

“Why do they do it? Why do they try to control the play even as they give up control of their body?”

“They’re not ready. They don’t trust the Dom. They don’t know how to let someone else be in command.”

“Possibly, but it’s also a way to make sure their needs are met. It’s human instinct—they’re making sure they get what they desire.”

“That’s fair, though a well negotiated scene should guarantee that everyone’s needs are met.”

“And what if the sub doesn’t negotiate?”

“You mean what if they rely on their checklist alone?”

“No, I mean what if the submissive won’t, or doesn’t, tell the Master what they want?”

James sat back and considered. “Then it is up to the Dom to discover what they really desire and need.”

“Exactly.”

James shifted. “That kind of emotional interrogation is not what I come here to do.”

“I know that. But you’re good at it. I heard about what happened with Xavier and Mae. If you hadn’t talked to Mae, helped her figure out her feelings, would she and Xavier have made it through their checklist last weekend?”

“They barely made it through as it was.”

“But you could read Mae.”

James took a breath and looked at the sideboard. Maybe it wasn’t too early for a drink. “True.”

“All I ask is that you do the same with this sub. Don’t take her at face value. She’s incredibly obedient, and completely closed.”

James frowned. Who was Mikael talking about? He thought he knew most of the members of Las Palmas, if not by name then by sight.

“Open it.”

James carefully peeled back the flap of the envelope.

* * *

It was cold in D.C. He missed California weather. He missed her.

The senator’s son stepped off the train, laptop bag over his shoulder, tie in place. He expertly ignored the looks his ruined face got him—the long looks followed by a quick jerk of the head when they looked away. His appearance was just another tool in his arsenal. When he testified before government bodies, as he was here to do today, he carried not only the weight of his mother’s name, but his own professional accomplishments and the very visible reminder of what he and others like him were fighting for.

“Dr. Xavier?” An anxious-looking aide with two cellphones and a clunky ID badge holder waved at him.

“That’s me.”

“Right this way. The chairperson wanted me to thank you for coming.”

“Of course. Anything I can do to help maintain or increase funding for these programs.”

Three hours later he read from his prepared statement, making sure to catch the eye of each congressperson on the panel. When the hearing was done he had lunch with his mother, one of the most powerful women in Washington even in her sixties, then headed for the offices of a national radio station to give an interview about the emerging health crises in Latin America.

* * *

The afternoon sun poured in the windows, making her office a well decorated sauna. She longed for the cool of the evening. She longed for him.

The owner of MissyMaven, a clothing and accessory brand that specialized in non-traditional sexy attire and lingerie, female-focused toys, and gothic and punk accessories with a sexy-cute spin, stood from her desk. The small offices were above the flagship brick and mortar store on a trendy street in Santa Monica. Below, her shoppers browsed the array of Rainbow Bright inspired thigh highs, princess dog collars, frilly panties, and white leather restraints embossed with black hearts. The rapidly growing empire drew a wide variety of buyers, from those steeped in the “Daddy/little” subculture where it had first started to tweens who had no idea why there were steel rings in the “chokers” they bought. They’d recently branched out into Goth attire, adding black to the color palette for the first time, but ensuring that all the Goth-style accessories featured plenty of bows and ribbons. In the spring they’d launch a line of steampunk wear and accessories, attracting an even broader client base.

Maven Block slipped out of her office and into the small kitchen area to grab a bottle of water. There were seven staff in this office, another ten in office space above the East L.A. factory where eighty skilled artisans made the bulk of their products, and two employees in a new satellite office in London, there to help the attempted expansion into an international market. Forbes.com had carried an article on the company last year, extolling the virtues of identifying a niche market and providing high-quality specialized products. And somehow she was in charge of it all—over 100 people who depended on her and the decisions she made for their livelihood. The business had grown from her making ruffled underwear on her grandmother’s old sewing machine and selling it to other “littles,” into a recognized brand and soon to be international company.

“Is it hot in your office again?” Her assistant looked up, tapping a button on the keyboard to turn down the sound of the news radio show she was streaming. “I’ll call about getting the AC repair person out here again.”

“Don’t bother. The air works fine, the sun is just at the wrong angle.” Maven adjusted the neckline of her rockabilly style dress. “What are you listening to?” For one insane moment she thought she’d heard a voice she recognized.

“Just a news show.”

“Turn it up.”

The program went to commercial break and Maven told herself to just go back to her office, but instead she waited, carefully wiping the condensation from her water bottle with a napkin. Her assistant was giving her a funny look, but she didn’t care.

“If you’re just joining us now, we have Doctor Solomon Xavier with us on the program. Dr. Xavier is the son of Senator Jane Xavier and you may remember him as the surgeon who was injured while volunteering at a clinic in Bangladesh several years ago. Since then he’s become an activist for world health and an ambassador for US-led international relief efforts. He has just returned from six months spent in South America. Dr. Xavier, thank you for being on the program.”

“Thank you for having me.”

Mae’s heart clenched at the sound of that voice.

“Maven are you oaky?”

“I’m fine. Fine.”

Locking herself in her office, she turned to her computer. A second later she was staring at the image of a blond doctor kneeling in the dirt, bent over a young woman, his hands pressed to her side. There was a stained rag tied over the side of his face. The scene around him was chaos, but the photographer had captured the shock and desperation of the moment.

Mae’s heart broke as she looked at the image. “Oh my poor Xavier.”