Red (The Safeword Series: Book One) Read online

  Red (The Safeword Series: Book One)

  Ava Claire

  Copyright © 2015 Ava Claire

  Cover by RBA Designs

  The Safeword Series

  Red (The Safeword Series: Book One)

  Yellow (The Safeword Series: Book Two)

  Green (The Safeword Series: Book Three)

  E-book License Edition Notes

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to an online retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One: Sophia

  Chapter Two: Desmond

  Chapter Three: Sophia

  Chapter Four: Desmond

  Chapter Five: Sophia

  Chapter Six: Desmond

  Chapter Seven: Sophia

  About The Author

  Chapter One: Sophia

  Sophia was no submissive.

  I'd had my suspicions from the moment she'd walked right up to me and jerked her hand out to shake mine.

  Submissives didn't shake my hand...they trembled at my touch.

  I wasn't some wet behind the ears dominant who stumbled upon the lifestyle because calling myself 'Dom' or 'Alpha' was suddenly trendy. I'd known about my desires, my needs, when I had no choice but to stay in the shadows. I lived and died by non-disclosure agreements and one night stands where my sessions were ended by writing a check to ensure their silence. Now, I was in the shadows by choice. I created Hush so people like me, people in the public eye with a lot to lose, could escape.

  This woman had her disguise prepared. We required our staff's first names only and hers was Sophia, though she opted to go by 'Sin' at the club. The pink wig, the skin tight dress that showed every scintillating curve, the demure little smile that made me pulse with want every time she flashed it my way...to the untrained eye, she fit the mold damn near perfectly. But her eyes were the first thing that gave her away. They held the look of someone that could swim laps in a pool with their eyes shut, but had finally opened them and realized they were flailing in the ocean.

  She glanced at me, like she was making sure I was watching. Making sure this was real.

  It was her gasp that solidified the unfortunate truth. It was barely above a whisper. If that wasn’t damning enough, her black nails gripped the edge of the desk.

  I finally got to see her tremble as she gaped at the scene unfolding on the illuminated monitor in front of us. Sophia's only sin was lying about her extensive experience in the lifestyle. Her anxiety was as palatable as the submissive we were watching in Dungeon #3. A petite, dark skinned woman was strapped to a St. Andrew's Cross, her Dominant wielding the cat o' nine tails like an artist about to paint his masterpiece.

  Sophia's face wasn't filled with wonder or excitement at what we were about to watch. The only wetness the display had inspired in her was the sweat exploding at her temples.

  She was terrified.

  Which meant she was a liar.

  With the exclusive nature of the club and the prime list of clients and staff that let their dark sides out to play, breeches in security were always a risk. I'd hoped Mary was wrong about this one because I had plans for this woman. This 'Sin'.

  I cast a rueful look at her, letting go of the fantasy of stripping her bare, removing that pink wig, and touching every part of her, inside and out. There was only one end to our story, and it wasn't the usual end where I got my fill and sent whomever on their way. Our story would end with me marching her to the exit, thrusting a document at her that outlined the extensive legal action we would take if she uttered a word of what she'd seen , and a door slamming in her face.

  "Is he-" Sophia croaked, the tremble rocking her from head to toe, "Going to spank her?"

  I owed her no words, no anything, but the devil on my shoulder couldn't resist delaying the inevitable. This would be as close to teasing as I'd get with her.

  "Yes," I answered darkly. "Vigorously."

  The optimistic lust inside me swore the flush that warmed her cheeks was that of arousal, but I didn't venture any further. I reached out and pressed the button to make the screen go dark. There was too much at stake. I wouldn't risk the safety and security of the club, no matter how delicious she was.

  Sophia spun in her chair, confusion gripping her soft features. She looked way too innocent. Too practiced.

  "I don't understand," she stammered. "Mary said someone has to be watching the monitors at all times."

  "This is the training room." I rose, buttoning my jacket. "Someone is always watching at Hush. We take the safety and security of our club very seriously...which is why you're coming with me."

  Her face was still playing the game, but I saw her gulp. She clasped her hands together in her lap to hide the shudder. "Where are we going?"

  I strode to the door, pulling it open with more force than was necessary. When she gasped this time, it was out of a different kind of fear.

  She knew she was caught.

  "We are not going anywhere." My words bit as sharply as a Wartenberg pinwheel. "You're leaving on your own accord...or I'm throwing you out."

  ****

  My pale blue eyes darkened with lust as I stroked every glistening contour of it. The thesaurus in my head scrambled to find the words to describe every hot inch.

  Thick.

  Juicy.

  Pulsing.

  I salivated as I closed my eyes and imagined my lips parting. Angelic choirs sang as I took a bite of the delicious, painfully overpriced burger.

  I reopened my eyes with a hungry groan. It was just a fantasy, because I wasn’t chowing down on some yummy burger. I was sitting in my cubicle, drooling. The picture that sent me on my daydream glowed on my computer screen. It was snapped on the patio of Hot Meat, the tongue-in-cheek name of the hottest new restaurant on Boulevard West. It joined the ranks of a cafe where a cup of coffee cost $10, several exotic restaurants that would earn a customer a tab of at least $100 a head, a dessert shoppe that would send you into bankruptcy, and now, a burger that cost twice as much as the new pair of Chuck Taylor’s I so desperately needed.

  I tapped my foot impatiently as I picked the third image in the carousel. There were half a dozen pictures to scroll through. Perusing them was like one of those flip books where thumbing the edge of the pages made the image dance and move, only the subject that I was looking at was just having lunch. The picture I settled on was a shot of mayo dribbling down actress Chastity Kennedy’s chin.

  ‘Chastity Kennedy’ may sound like the name of a stripper with ambition, but the Chastity featured in this picture was anything but a punchline. Sure, she had the same Hollywood good looks that were mandatory in this town: flawless, sun-kissed skin, piercing blue eyes, and a covetable pout. She possessed all of these things before the makeup artists got a hold of her, a natural beauty who even pulled off the messy blonde tresses that she had stuffed into her ball cap.

  At 21, she had a Tony and 2 Oscar nominations, with her most recent turn as a saloon girl during the Gold Rush garnering whispers that she was a shoo in for her third statuette. Oh, and she graduated magna cum laude from Harvard. None of that mattered for my purposes. It was my job to pick the most unflattering picture out of the bunch and come up with a pithy remark about how celebrities eat burgers, just like the rest of us.

  I leaned back in my chair, scooping up my Cup of Noodles. I wasn’t comp
laining about my lot in life—how many people land their dream job? I was working at one of the top gossip magazines in LA. I’d only been at The Dish for three months and I’d already covered a red carpet event, getting glammed up on the company’s dime and getting a few minutes alone with people I’d only seen on the big screen. Still, I was searching for something more, something that vaulted me to the ranks of the Who’s Who of entertainment reporting: an undercover story about the secret lives of the rich and famous.

  I spun my fork slowly and dumped a lukewarm bundle of noodles in my mouth. I clicked on the picture, enlarging it until I could see every pore on Chastity’s face. I could already hear my boss yelling at whatever unlucky graphic designer had forgotten to enhance the pimple on Chastity’s otherwise perfect chin.

  While Perri Collins, the editor-in-chief of The Dish, had made a small fortune documenting celebrities, she didn’t hide her disdain for our star studded subjects. We didn’t run anything on their charities, or cute family shots, and she barely spared the staff for red carpet events. She wanted pictures of wedgies, chewing with mouths wide open, sloppy clothes. The more outrageous, the more embarrassing, the better.

  I put aside my noodles, my fingers poised above the keyboard. Usually, my inner mean girl could whip out something that made my inner feminist cringe, but I had nothing.

  “How about, ‘Actress Eats a Burger’, then insert some sort of shrug emoji? It’s factual, to the point, and the emoji makes it hip.”

  I spun my chair around to face the welcome, familiar voice. Peter Rhodes was my first friend when I started working at The Dish, swooping in to save the day after Perri laughed me right out of my first staff meeting. I pitched a no-holds-barred story on Mia Kent and her crazy mom-ager. I’d never been one to run from a fight, or shed a single tear in front of anyone, but I almost broke that rule. Perri had perfected the art of making her staff feel like complete, and utter idiots with scathing remarks that cut deeper than any knife...and that day was my turn under the blade.

  Peter brought me a cup of coffee, along with my first advice on the job.

  “Don’t take Perri personally...she doesn’t deserve it. Any idea that doesn’t involve a camel toe picture or something equally ridiculous will never get her stamp of approval.”

  We bonded over the fact that we were both journalism majors with aspirations that exceeded the busy work we did at The Dish, but the city was expensive and pride didn’t pay the bills. When I found out that he was the only man alive who actually admitted that he enjoyed The Notebook, I knew we’d be great friends.

  “Hey Peter,” I cracked a grin. “Pulitzer Prize winning coverage on the premiere last night.”

  He puffed out his chest. “Another to add to my illustrious career.” He narrowed his deep brown eyes, scanning my computer screen. “I think a more interesting story is the fact that Chas only ate half of her fifty dollar burger, but hey, I’m just a lowly entertainment reporter.”

  “You and me both,” I chuckled, picking up my paltry lunch and offering him a bite.

  He made a face. “I appreciate it, but now that I’ve seen that burger, I’m gonna hunt down one of my own.” He cocked his head towards the elevator. “Wanna get out of here?”

  I almost said yes, but the spark in his eyes, combined with the our last encounter, made me hesitate. My roommate and I threw a dinner party and after three glasses of sangria and two jello shots, he tried to kiss me.

  “I’m super behind, but enjoy it for the both of us, okay?” I said, a little too chipper.

  “Your loss,” he winked with a shrug, but I didn’t miss the undercurrent of something else in the words. And just to solidify that things were still a little bit off with us, he touched the rim of his hat and booked it toward the exit like the fire alarm had gone off.

  I didn’t miss the handful of eyes that followed his departure. Peter had this casual charm, cool musician thing happening—shaggy brown hair, days old scruff, and wrist-to-shoulder tattoo sleeves—but he was like a big brother to me. And even if I saw him as more than a friend, I’d learned the hard way that it’s a really, really bad idea to date a co-worker.

  To be fair, I couldn’t remember the last date I’d been on, period. I’d relocated a year ago, determined to make every single one of my dreams come true: become an entertainment reporter, and have lots of no strings attached you know what. I’d dated and worked with my ex from my freshman year of college until graduation and it was a roller-coaster of emotions. A lot of firsts were checked off the list: first real boyfriend, first time I had sex, first time I was cheated on, and the first time I stood up for myself and told a guy to fuck off. So I decided that I wouldn’t bother with complications, and I would never let myself fall so deep that my heart was even on the table.

  With all the whackos that I should have swiped left on, I amended my dreams and decided to focus on my career. The Dish was just the beginning. I longed to ask tough questions. To be the one that shone the light into closets and dug up all kinds of skeletons.

  And I had a plan.

  It started off as mere rumors. Someone knew a guy who knew a girl who heard about a BDSM club. Hush was an invite-only sex club where celebs got all kinds of kinky and freaky. That kind of club, filled with secrets, was the kind of place where I could go from ‘By: Staff’ to ‘By: Sophia Slater’.

  But first, a caption.

  I brought my cup of noodles to my lips, sipping on the chicken-like, soupy water. When I put it back down, I had my line.

  ‘Chastity Kennedy takes no prisoners, devouring her burger at popular eatery, Hot Meat’. I zipped it off to my manager, who would email it to Perri. The only time we were allowed to communicate directly with Perri was during the weekly staff meetings, and it was far from a pleasant process. Perri ruled the staff with an iron fist and had a cackle that had sent many writers, male and female, to the bathroom in tears.

  I glanced around to make sure no one was hovering around my cubicle, then pulled out my phone. I tapped the ‘Notes’ icon where my secret assignment was stored.

  I had a whole identity ready to go. Since the allure of Hush was escape, the extent of their screening process was a background check to make sure applicants hadn’t murdered anyone or committed some unspeakable crime. If I was asked why I wanted to work at Hush, I wouldn’t say I wanted to learn as much about the A-list management, staff, and clients that sought out the whips, chains, and naughty things that went on behind closed doors. I’d wax lyrical about being drawn to the dark, beautiful world of BDSM. It wouldn’t be far from the truth considering I’d actually watched movies like Secretary and 50 Shades more times than I was willing to admit. I’d even throw in a little bit of truth, talking about feeling ostracized from the rest of my peers growing up. Girls who wanted babies and PTA meetings. Guys who said they wanted a girl like me who was free and ambitious, but really wanted the girls that wanted white picket fences. Guys like my ex.

  When my screen dinged with an IM from my manager, I quickly put my phone away, like she was hovering over my shoulder instead of halfway across the room.

  Melissa:

  Hey Soph! Perri gave it the go ahead. It’s going on the site in the next half hour, front page. Keep up the good work. :)

  If she was the boss, things might have been different. Melissa was gentle but firm, and actually listened instead of getting off on scaring the staff into submission. Before I realized all Perri wanted was gossip and quirky one liners, hearing that she loved my work would have meant something. Now, I just smiled and sent back a thanks to Melissa and thought about how Perri’s head would explode once my expose on Hush went live. She’d realize she had a writer with killer instincts, ready to change the game...and she’d dropped the ball because she had me writing copy about an actress eating a burger.

  Chapter Two: Desmond

  Every eye in the room looked at me for salvation.

  Every dream hung in the balance.

  Only five names would be called, five
people who were safe until we did this whole song and dance all over again. The editing team would work their magic tonight, turning these tortured moments into theatre. They'd find the fevered rhythm and cut to every sweaty, hopeful face. Music would add the suspense, and the audience would eat it right up. The standard, deep, and all-knowing voice would be added to the video, reiterating everything that was at stake. A quarter of a million dollars. A life changing amount of money.

  If you believed the story that had been spun and oozed from TV and computer screens all over the country, every person that stood before me would use that money to pursue their culinary dreams. Open a restaurant. Start a catering company. Take their commercial kitchen to the next level. I knew the truth.

  Everything was for sale. Everything, from the tears that filled the eyes of the single mom who worked as a cook in some dead end restaurant and needed this money for a new start, to the man who'd been dubbed one of the villains and smiled smugly because he knew he'd be one of the final five. The ugly truth was that everyone behind the scenes already knew the single mom from Arkansas would be crowned ‘America's Chef’. She'd take that check—and be back at that dead end restaurant in 2 years time. Maybe less. The show was entering its seventh season and I'd seen it happen over and over. It's all about the money...and without fail, it's the money that dashes dreams instead of making them come true.

  "Um, Des? You can go ahead and put them out of their misery." My earpiece crackled to life, pulling me back to the lights and the cameras and those eyes staring up at me like I was God.

  God, I thought bitterly. If only they knew I was the devil. Once the show had been off for a few months, the world will have forgotten most of them and by the time the next season was locked and loaded, no one would remember who won the previous season without the help of Google.

  But we all had our roles to play, and I was Desmond O'Connoll, world renown chef and restauranteur, and executive producer of America's Chef and countless other reality TV cooking show competitions. I was the cold, brutal critic who tore them down to build them back up. And while my first instinct was to growl something that was definitely not broadcast friendly, self control took the wheel and I raised my chin and looked out at the contestants before me.